Steel Magnolia
by The Patriette
Summary: Lois Lane, a feisty young journalist with nerves of steel, finds herself swept into adventure, mystery, and romance when the man who saved her life turns out to be an alien nobleman with a heroic destiny. "Man of Steel" from Lois' first-person POV.
1. Assigned

**Hello readers! Okay, yes, if you're reading this you're probably thinking I have some explainin' to do! So here it is. I've decided to put _Changed For Good _on hiatus. It is not on _permanent_ hiatus; I'm just giving it a break so I can step back and recharge my _Changed For Good_ batteries. I may even end up totally revising it, taking out some elements that were dragging the story down. But I'm running on fumes where that story is concerned and I need to give it a break.**

**I'd also considered doing a _Man of Steel/Captain America_ crossover, but that wasn't working for me, either. So I've been pursuing this idea, one that actually came to me not long after I saw _Man of Steel _for the first time, and really loving it! Lois Lane fascinates me and after talking to some of you I know there's a real desire for more Clark/Lois stories based on the MOS universe. So this is my version of Lois Lane and the movie from her perspective. Hopefully I'll get to fill in some of the empty spots in her story (The cemetery scene, anyone? The Kryptonians searching her mind on the_ Black Zero__?)_ and still use some of the headcanon I've developed in _The Girl of Two Worlds _and _Changed For Good._**

**Obligatory disclaimer: Superman and Lois Lane do not belong to me, and if they did, I would definitely have them get married in Man of Steel 2 and make lots of sweet babies. Henry Cavill/Amy Adams as Clark Kent/Lois Lane. On with the show.**

* * *

_It's another day on the American military base in Seoul and I sit at the table, looking across the kitchen and into the living room. My mother had just turned the television on. She's not watching the morning news but I am. I'm only four years old and I'm captivated. President Reagan is on; he's telling someone to tear down the big wall right behind him and I wonder why he looks so angry. _

_ My oatmeal steams in my face, rich and cinnamony. I take a big bite just before Mom's shrill voice breaks into my peaceful existence. She's shouting at Daddy about how she hates it here. How bored she is. How she misses her family in Metropolis. I don't know where Metropolis is and I don't care. My ears only perk up when I hear my name. _

_ "Lois is picking up Korean words faster than she's learning English. Is that how you want her to grow up, Sam—is it?! Pay attention to me, Sam!" I hear something crash against the counter; I think it's the oatmeal pot. "God, you sicken me!" _

_ And my little four-year-old self cringes, sinks down further into my chair, and I push my bowl away. Mother swoops in, pushes it back in my face. "Eat!" _

_ "No," I whimper, "I'm not hungry anymore."_

_ "Eat it!" Mother screams. Her face is red, her eyes are wide and snapping. My eyes fill with tears. Mother snatches up the bowl and jerks me out of my chair. "You _both_ sicken me!" _

A hand suddenly clamping on my shoulder woke me so fast, I heard myself let out a sharp cry of alarm. The hand shook me hard, and though I wasn't jostled as angrily as I was in the dream, Mom's voice was still there. The fresh memory of the nightmare made her sound as irritating as nails on a chalkboard and I barely suppressed a groan of misery.

"Wake up, Lois!" she hissed. "Perry White is on the phone."

"Oh gosh, Mom." I lifted my head from the pillow and pushed my disheveled hair from my eyes. "You scared me to death . . ."

"Get up, get up!" Mom grabbed my arm, pulling me into a sitting position. "He wouldn't call you on your day off unless he had something important to say to you. Come on, Lois, focus, focus, wake up!"

Then she started patting my cheek, trying to get me to wake up. That was really too much. I opened my eyes all the way and pushed her hands away, irritated.

"Stop that! I'm awake!"

Satisfied, Mom snatched up the telephone on the nightstand and extended the receiver to me like she was offering one of the gifts of the Magi. I bit back a smart comment and took it, cleared my throat.

"Hello?" My voice sounded like a frog's; I cleared it, tried again. "Perry?"

"Morning, Lane." My boss' voice was firm and calm—a clear contrast to the scolding chatter I'd had to put up with ever since I came to Mom's apartment last night. "I know I don't usually call you on your day off . . ."

"No, no, that's all right," I said hurriedly. Mom still stood over me, her arms crossed over the front of her dressing gown; I looked away, trying not to let her throw me off mental balance. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, but something's come up and I need you to come over to the office as soon as you can. We're shuffling some assignments around."

_Shuffling assignments! _I jumped to my feet and grabbed the telephone set, tucking it under my arm and moving myself away from my mother. "Thank God! Come on, Perry, tell me I don't have to report on the farm bill anymore. I don't think I've ever had to deal with such a boring story."

I heard him chuckle on the other end; it sounded, too, like he was laughing around a sip from his coffee cup. "I didn't know your feelings were so strong about it, Lane."

"You know me, I try not to complain," I said as seriously as I could, though I still caught myself grinning in the vanity mirror.

"Let's just say for now that I think I can make your life a little easier, then." I heard a clunk, as if he had just set his coffee cup down on his desk. "Meet me in my office in an hour, Lane. That should give you enough time to . . . well, wake up."

The teasing note in his voice was unmistakable and I turned red in spite of myself. "Sorry, Perry . . . I was up till two reading _To Kill a Mockingbird_ . . ."

"Cut it out, Lane. What you do on your nights off makes no difference to me. Just be in the office at ten."

The line clicked on the other end and I slammed the receiver down, my heart thudding so loud I was sure my mom could hear it. Quickly I brushed past her and dropped on my knees to the suitcase on the floor, grabbing the capris and the sky-blue t-shirt I'd planned to relax in on my first free Saturday in two months.

"Lois, you can't be seen going to the _Planet _office in _that_," Mom said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes I can. Perry's pretty much seen me in everything but my pajamas." I laughed, remembering the time he called me from the one and only exercise class I ever took. I appeared in his office with my hair scraped back from my sweaty face, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and yoga pants. And he didn't miss a beat.

"He said they're shuffling assignments. If I could get relieved from that farm bill business—"

"Your work in Washington is indispensable!" Mother cried, following me as I darted across the room towards the bathroom. "And you've met so many nice people, haven't you? Why, just last night you were telling me all about your new acquaintances . . ."

I stopped, halfway in the bathroom, and cocked my head at her. "Yes, Mom—acquaintances like the Big Ag representative I interviewed yesterday who spent more time looking like he was mentally undressing me, or the small-town farmer who aimed pretty badly and spit tobacco on my shoes. Such _pleasant_ acquaintances indeed. I need to take a shower—tell Corrine I just want some yogurt for breakfast."

"Lois Joanne—" my mother began, but I shut the door and pressed my back against it, facing the huge tub with a sigh of relief. Eventually I heard her leave the bedroom, muttering under her breath, and I peeled off my pajamas. The nicest thing about staying overnight at my mom's was the house itself, not necessarily her company; at least here I could practically swim in a bathtub, a luxury I did not have in my somewhat spartan flat on the other side of Metropolis.

* * *

If Mom didn't approve of my clothing—and really, that outfit was all I had in that suitcase other than my wrinkled work clothes from yesterday—at least she approved of the way I'd curled my hair.

Ever since I was a tyke she had disapproved of its color. "Too bad you didn't inherit _red_ hair, Lois . . . that dull ginger just isn't becoming." She, of course, had gorgeous, Irish-red hair, and ever since she got to be on the wrong side of fifty she'd taken to dyeing it, forcing it to stay that way. Her only consolation was that I cared enough about my hair to make it look good.

She sat at the dining table reading the morning paper—_The Daily Planet_, I saw with no small satisfaction—and tilted her cheek up for a kiss. I gave it quickly, caught up the plastic yogurt cup her maid, Corrine, held out to me.

"I've gotta run, Mom. I'll come back later to get my stuff. Thanks again for a pleasant night."

Mom set down the paper and looked me in the eye. "If I'd known you were planning to stay up so late _reading_, Mr. Whitaker could've stayed longer. Of course you made him so uneasy, the idea of spending anymore time with _you _might be a horror to him."

I grabbed a spoon off the table, slung my purse over my shoulder, and simply didn't answer Mom's challenge to squabble. "I'll see you later, probably this afternoon."

"I won't be here, I'm going to have my permanent done." Mom snapped the paper open again and took up her coffee cup. "Have a good day, dear."

And that was pretty much the extent of our relationship. Ever since I got my degree eight years ago in investigative journalism and graduated from intern to staff writer at _The Daily Planet_, my mom had vacillated between outright disapproval of my career choice and an odd desperation to keep a close eye on me. These sleepovers at her apartment weren't uncommon and were often used as excuses to force me into having dinner with some handsome and/or wealthy young bachelor of her acquaintance. Last night was no exception and I must say, I flubbed it beautifully by "accidentally" spilling my wine all over Mr. Whitaker's starched white pants.

Served him right for that snide little comment of his . . . "So, Miss Lane, I guess the men of the First Division thought it was pretty swell to have such an attractive lady embedded in their team?"

I gave him a sour smile in response. "Actually, Mr. Whitaker, I'm _not_ attractive. I've got the plainest face in the history of the universe and what you see is mostly the kind work of a little Maybelline and hairspray. You should see me when I get out of bed in the morning."

My mom looked like she wanted the earth to open up, swallow her, and close in again above her. Mr. Whitaker almost choked on his food. I just sat there still looking, I'm sure, as sour as a lemon, and refused to even offer my napkin when I knocked my wine glass over a few minutes later. I worked too hard in Afghanistan with those men of the First Division—I respected them too much to have anyone speak so lightly of them—and I'd do more than spill my wine on his pants for that insult if I didn't think my mother might disown me completely.

It would be a funny story to tell Jenny Olsen on Monday morning, that was for sure. She was off today, just as I was supposed to be; in fact, the bull-pen only contained about half the staff this morning. Steve Lombard was there, of course; weekends were big days for the sports staff, and when he saw me coming in regular everyday clothes he grinned teasingly at me.

"Lookin' good, Lois, lookin' good."

"Keep your eyes to yourself, Lombard," I said, only half-serious. Steve and I had an ongoing office flirtation that was far more on his side than on mine; he took me out on a date once two years ago and had been trying ever since then, unsuccessfully, to nail a second.

My boss' office was on the other side of the bull-pen; I rapped on the door with my knuckles, and without waiting for an answer, opened it. Perry White sat at his desk with his thin-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, typing something up on his computer. When he saw me, he whipped off the glasses and waved his hand for me to come on in.

"And shut the door behind you," he said in his brisk, commanding way of speaking. I obeyed and plopped down in the straight-backed chair in front of his desk. I'd been working for Perry for eleven years total and was pretty proud of the fact that I knew him like the back of my hand. He was in a good mood today. I could tell by the way he sat back in his swivel chair and rubbed his big hands together.

"How're you doing, Lane?"

I smirked, shrugged. "Pretty well, in spite of the fact that I had a date last night who was so full of himself, it's a wonder he could stand up straight."

"Oh Lord," he muttered.

"All my mom's doing, of course. I don't know why she thinks I'd be interested in the biggest idiots in the country."

Perry snorted and I smiled just at the sight of his amusement. If I knew Perry, he knew me just as well; he'd seen me tear men—and women—apart in the bull-pen far too many times to imagine I'd have any patience with a conceited blockhead, no matter how rich or famous he was.

"So I imagine you haven't seen much news this morning," Perry said, bringing his fingertips together.

"No, I've only been awake for about an hour." I shifted in my seat, crossed my legs. "What's going on? Why the assignment shuffle?"

"I'll get to that. First off, what comes to your mind when you hear the words 'Ellesmere Island?' "

I frowned, my brain going back to every geography class I ever had in school. "North Pole?"

"Close. It's the northern-most island owned by Canada. Almost touches Greenland." Perry eyed me keenly. "Anything else?"

"Wait a minute." I narrowed my eyes and pointed my finger at him. "There was something, earlier this year . . . around the same time that I won my Pulitzer . . ."

"Exactly." Perry reached over the desk, handing me a stack of stapled articles he'd obviously

copied on his printer. "Unidentified object discovered in a glacier on the island back in March. Problem is, the glacier is located on NORTHCOM territory."

My brain kicked into high gear at that. "NORTHCOM, that's a US military command. They monitor any and all terrorism threats in North America, right?"

Perry nodded. "And since they're hung up on security, they haven't let independent scientists—or reporters—on the base to investigate. They have their own scientists, of course, and their own spokespersons, but you and I both know how that could turn out."

Of course, I thought; it's easy to communicate the narrative _you _prefer if your own people are feeding it to the public. Whether or not that narrative and the truth mesh is entirely a matter of coincidence.

"You think NORTHCOM is hiding something?" I asked.

"Not necessarily. They may just be ultra-protective of their base, which is understandable to a certain extent. But everything just changed this morning."

Perry handed me another article, this one looking as if he'd just printed it; the ink was slightly smeared on one edge where his thumb had accidentally touched it. I skimmed it, a sudden bubbly excitement rising up in my gut, and read the headline out loud

" 'Appellate court strikes down NORTHCOM injunction, allows press onto Ellesmere base for submarine site investigation.' "

"That's what they think it is—a Soviet submarine that got lodged in the ice one winter." Perry shrugged. "It's a good explanation but I want to know more. I want the scoop on this, Lane—and I want my best reporter on the job."

My head jerked up and I'm sure I looked like a kid who's just been offered free rein in a candy shop. "You want me to go to the North Pole, look a NORTHCOM official in the eye, and tell him I want the scoop on a mysterious object buried in ice?"

Perry raised his eyebrows. "You know of anybody else capable of looking aforesaid official in the eye and telling him off if he tries to throw his weight around?"

I cocked my head at him, unable to hold back a smile. _Of course I don't know anyone better. I'm Lois Lane. I'm the one who spent six months in Afghanistan last year with the First Division. Part of that time I spent wearing a bulletproof vest under a jilbab—the vest to protect myself from snipers, the traditional robe to avoid alienating the friendly Afghans I met whenever the division went into town. I'm adaptable, I'm experienced, and I'm not easily intimidated._

"And what about the farm bill?" I asked coolly.

"I'll give it to Miranda."

I nodded, tapped the stapled articles on my knee. The photos of heavy equipment looming over a snowy landscape suddenly looked infinitely more appealing that the prospect of hours listening to debates over some farm bill I honestly couldn't care less about. I drew in a deep breath, sat straight up in the chair, looked my boss in the eye.

"So when can I get a flight to Ellesmere?"

* * *

When I dashed by Mom's apartment that afternoon to pick up my suitcase, she was gone to the salon. Corrine was in the kitchen and paid me little mind except to say, "Hello, Miss Lois—yes,

Miss Lois, she's gone to get her perm—no, Miss Lois, I don't think she'll be home anytime soon, Mrs. Burbank called and invited her to go out for dinner with her and Mr. Burbank."

_Excellent_, I thought as I lugged my small suitcase out the door and down fifty-five floors to the busy Metropolis street. I didn't want to tell my mother about Ellesmere Island. I could already hear her dismay and contempt; prior experiences—especially my Afghan trip—taught me not to expect her to see opportunity in any of my adventures.

Daddy would've seen it differently. My father had been a general and served his country well; his last distinguished act before he had to retire was to supervise the transfer of provisions into Gotham City, when it was under the control of that terrorist-tyrant who called himself "Bane." He always liked a good adventure, especially if it involved white knights and dastardly villains. It bothered the hell out of him that he couldn't go out and challenge Bane himself with a division of strapping American infantry.

"Of course," he told me a few months later, after Gotham was free and he lay in a hospital bed with chemo dripping into him through an IV, "sometimes we're just called to stand behind the real heroes. And that role oughtta be good enough for us."

I let myself into my flat, dropped the suitcase with a thud. I'd lived here for five long years and it showed; for all my cubicle at work was so orderly, my house was a wreck. Laundry from the past week was piled on the couch, waiting to be folded. The supplies in my fridge were sparse, the pantry only a little better.

Calm and order were centered only around my writing desk, a heavy piece of furniture that had moved in from Daddy's house after he died. My laptop lay on its surface. I opened it up, turned it on, sat down, typed in my password.

And then I just sat there, thinking.

If I was traveling almost to the North Pole, I needed to pay a visit to the mall and buy a good coat. Post-Christmas but still in the dead of winter, a parka could probably be bought for a reasonable price. I needed to pack up my Nikon and make sure all the lenses were clean and in shape. Perry was taking care of my plane tickets.

The only other thing that needed doing was researching the NORTHCOM base and finding out all that I could about this odd discovery. I reached into my purse and grabbed the articles Perry gave me. There wasn't much information about the find itself, but every article invariably called it a Soviet submarine.

That must be the official government narrative. It would be my job to see if the narrative and what I found on Ellesmere went together, or if they clashed. And if they did clash . . .

Well. That would make for a good story, wouldn't it?


	2. Ellesmere Island

**Thanks to _Man of Steel_, I now know more about Ellesmere Island, its geography, and its weather patterns than I ever did before. Yep, I do my homework.**

* * *

I ticked off my list of supplies in my head as I sat, tense and expectant, in the helicopter. In a few minutes I'd be getting off, setting foot on Canadian soil and military territory. Any immediate connection with American conveniences and luxuries would be cut off the second I was on the ground.

_Phone, check. Nikon, check. Laptop, check. Duffle bag, check. Sanitary pads . . . umm, yeah, check. _That was important, almost as important as the Nikon. I wasn't just the first American reporter to investigate the site; I was also going to be the only woman on this NORTHCOM base. There'd be no running to the drugstore if That Time Of The Month decided to kick in.

"Please keep your seatbelts fastened until the helicopter makes a complete stop," the pilot said over his intercom. I glanced around, saw the contractors and workmen lean forward in their seats. A few of them had been friendly to me during the flight from Alert, the nearest town, though one old geezer scowled at me like he already expected me to be a hindrance to the work on the base.

In spite of myself, I felt nervous. This certainly wasn't the most dangerous assignment in my eight years as an investigative journalist, but I had never gone toe-to-toe with any military officials before, either.

After the mysterious object was discovered, NORTHCOM had fiercely opposed the requests of any and all reporters or scientists not directly associated with the United States government to visit the base. As Perry had told me in his office, that was understandable—but only to a certain point. NORTHCOM was concerned with terrorist threats. A huge buried object in the ice wasn't exactly a pressing threat. The appellate court knew that, and had ruled accordingly.

"Remember," Perry said just before I left Metropolis, "those guys up there are gonna see you as an intruder. Don't be a smartypants, but let them know you've got the courts on your side."

_Don't be a smartypants. Right. Easier said than done. _I bit down on the tip of my tongue and prayed I could keep it in check. I wasn't exactly known for my tact. My mother could've told anyone _that._

The helicopter came to a smooth landing on snowy ground. It was March, and my research over the past week taught me that from September to February, Ellesmere was plunged into pretty much total darkness. Right now a milky sun reflected off the thick snow, and in its light I caught my first glimpse of the base through the window.

Nestled in the shadow of a huge ice shelf lay rows of barracks, a main hub, a laboratory. Atop the ice shelf loomed a tower-like structure—_a meltdown generator_, I thought, recalling my diligent research—surrounded by water pumps and the tiny, fast-moving figures of workers.

Someone outside pulled the door open and I unbuckled. I waited for the men around me to exit first, but one of them smiled, motioned for me to go ahead. I smiled back at him and stood up, breathing in the icy air that had just blasted into the helicopter; it burned my lungs and made my face tingle.

The broad-shouldered man who'd opened the door watched me while I measured the distance from the helicopter to the ground. When I stepped down with clumsy caution, he caught me by the waist and gently swung me to the ground.

"Thanks," I said, straightening my parka. He smiled quietly and nodded.

"Miss Lane?" a voice shouted behind me. I turned, saw a shorter, thinner man approaching; he, like everyone else on this island, wore a heavy parka and a wool beanie over his head. He extended a gloved hand to me.

"Miss Lane, how're you doin'?" His Southern accent was warm and my hopes soared. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a cold-shoulder welcome after all. I took his hand and smiled as best as I could in spite of the fact that the sun made me squint painfully.

"I'm fine, how are you?" I shouted over the whirring chopper blades.

"Great! Jed Eubanks, Arctic Cargo. We're a private contractor helping NORTHCOM out with the excavation site. Colonel Hardy sent me to pick you up and escort you into the base."

"Oh, good," I said, swallowing my disappointment. So this wasn't Colonel Hardy after all.

"Joe will take your bags," he said. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the man who'd helped me out of the chopper reaching for my duffle bag and my laptop bag. A slight panic rose up in my throat; that laptop was my most prized possession, and the duffle bag, it held all my stuff . . .

"Careful with those, they're heavy!" I shouted. He looked at me and nodded again, swinging the duffle bag carefully over his shoulder. I was impressed; that bag weighed sixty pounds. I'd had to pay the airline extra to carry it on the plane from Metropolis to Newfoundland.

Mr. Eubanks motioned for me to walk alongside him as we approached the base. To my relief, he was a conversationalist; it helped soothe my continuing nervousness. He also handed me a pair of sunglasses, for which I thanked him profusely.

"Gotta confess, Miss Lane, I've never been a fan of _The Daily Planet_. I'm much more of a _Wall Street Journal _guy myself. But those pieces you wrote when you were embedded with the First Division . . . well, they were pretty impressive."

I smiled, trying not to swell with pride. "Well, what can I say? I get writer's block if I'm not wearing a flak jacket."

He threw back his head and laughed. "You won a Pulitzer for that, didn't you? You deserved it, that's for sure."

_Thank God for a friendly face and voice_, I thought. I glanced over my shoulder once more, just to check on my luggage; sure enough, Joe followed close behind, carrying it all with a conscientiousness that I appreciated.

Mr. Eubanks led me into the base's main hub, a large, heated building that looked like it had been reinforced to withstand a nuclear blast, let alone an Arctic blizzard. My skin tingled again when it made contact with the warmer air, and I shivered as I glanced around. The whole place bustled with activity; most of the men around me wore the uniforms of either the American or Canadian armed forces.

"Miss Lane," Eubanks' voice broke into my thoughts, "I've gotta run now. I'm leaving Joe with you to help you move your luggage into your new quarters. _That's_ the man you need to meet, right there. I'll see you later—nice to meet you."

He pointed in the direction of a stern-faced officer in American uniform who was approaching at a brisk pace with another man, a scientist type, in tow. I managed to thank Eubanks before taking a deep breath and drawing myself up to my full but still unimpressive height. The officer reached me just as Eubanks returned to the frigid outdoors.

"Miss Lane," the officer said in a firm, no-nonsense voice._ No calming Southern accent here. _"Colonel Nathan Hardy, US-NORTHCOM. Dr. Emil Hamilton, from DARPA."

I had snatched off my mitten and offered my bare hand to Colonel Hardy as soon as he came up, but he coolly ignored it and gestured instead towards his companion, a sixty-something man who looked like the kind of guy who got a kick out of geology books and moon rocks. Hamilton, at least, took my hand with a small, kind smile.

"You're early," Hardy said, almost snapping. "We were expecting you tomorrow."

"Which is why I showed up _today_," I retorted, and tossed my head before I could stop myself.

Hardy cocked his head, his grey eyes clearly expressing his contempt. That riled me more than anything else. Even his dismissal of my proffered hand wasn't as bad as that.

_Don't be a smartypants, but let them know you've got the courts on your side._

"Look, let's get one thing straight, okay?" I said, rubbing my hands together and looking from Hardy to Hamilton and then back to Hardy. "The only reason I'm here is because we're on Canadian soil, not American, and the appellate court overruled your injunction to keep the press away. So if we're done trying to prove who's the toughest guy on the block, can you have your people show me what you found?"

A sudden flicker of amusement cracked Hardy's steely demeanor; he blinked and turned to Hamilton, who chuckled under his breath. Hardy drew a breath, jerked his head to the side.

"Sure, Miss Lane. Right this way."

* * *

For this base to be in such a godforsaken location, it sure was technologically advanced. Hardy and Hamilton led me to a tactical operations room where rows of computers monitored everything from the heating systems on the base to the huge generators and radars focused on the excavation site. A staff sergeant, upon learning from Hardy who I was and why I was there, eagerly offered me a seat. I pulled a notebook from my parka's front pocket and starting taking notes in my small, neat shorthand.

"NASA's EOS satellites pinged the anomaly in the ice shelf first," he explained, pulling up

the sonar images on one of the computers. "The ice shelf plays hell on the echo soundings, but there's definitely something there."

I squinted at the screen. The sergeant pointed out some large, dark object on the image that, without his help, would've been indiscernible to me.

"Pretty cool, huh?" he asked, grinning a little.

"Yeah," I said, discreetly fishing for an opinion. "Everything I've heard suggests it might be a Soviet-era submarine. Maybe the Russians were looking for a way to infiltrate Canada way back when?"

"Doubtful," Hardy said. I whirled to look at him; I hadn't expected him to contradict what I had thought the official government narrative. He looked me in the eye as if he read my mind and added quietly, "That thing's about a thousand feet long. Considerably larger than anything we know they built back then."

"Not to mention an unusually large submarine even by today's standards," Hamilton added.

"But here's the spooky part," the sergeant said, pulling up a new image. "The ice surrounding the object? It's _thick_. We're talking thousands-of-years-old-thick."

I frowned. "_Thousands?_"

"Thousands," he repeated.

Colonel Hardy suddenly cleared his throat roughly. "I think that's enough for today, Sergeant. Miss Lane, let me show you to your quarters. Tomorrow I'll have a man show you around the excavation site itself."

Everything in me wanted to argue and press the sergeant for more questions, but he looked a little shamefaced, as if he, too, realized he'd said too much. He'd probably clam up if I pressed him. I'd interviewed enough people to know when someone wanted to spill and when they were too scared to say another word.

As soon as I entered my new quarters, I had to wonder if they'd been planned as a sort of subtle revenge. The tiny building was nothing more than a well-used, heavy-duty storage container, with boxes and metal safes lined up on one wall. In the center of the room stood a cot not much longer than I was tall, with a couple of pillows and several heavy blankets folded on top of it.

Joe, who had followed me in faithful silence with all my luggage, stepped in ahead of me and Colonel Hardy. I watched him set the laptop bag on the cot beside the pillows and slide the duffle bag underneath the cot.

"Thanks," I murmured again as he passed me on his way out, then turned to Colonel Hardy. I tried to suppress my frustration and embarrassment when I caught a somewhat amused look on his face.

"Try not to wander any further than the mess hall after the sun goes down," he said, glancing out the open door at the meltdown generator high above us. "It might be the beginning of May, but the temperature can still drop as low as negative thirty at night. If a blizzard were to roll in, we wouldn't find your body until next spring—_if _the snow melted even then."

"So sometimes the snow doesn't melt at all?" I asked, astounded.

"Nope. Last summer the temperature never got above freezing."

I shuddered, looked again at what would be my bedroom and workplace for the next week. "What if I need to tinkle?"

Colonel Hardy smirked. "There's a bucket in the corner. See you at supper, Miss Lane."

And with that he slammed the heavy metal door shut. Now that he was gone, the excitement I'd had when I got on the helicopter this morning came back in a rush. Yeah, the storage room wasn't exactly Buckingham Palace, but I could make it do. I plopped down on my cot, rubbed my knees for a minute, and then proceeded to make the tiny room a bit more home-like.

I dragged one of the metal safes closer to the cot; that would be my work table. I pulled out my laptop and opened it, set it on top of the safe. My Nikon came next; I fastened a lens to it and set it proudly beside the laptop. I made my bed and even tried out that bucket for the first time. It wasn't too bad. I couldn't say the same for the toilet paper.

When I was done, I leaned my back against the door and surveyed the place. I felt a satisfied smirk slide across my face as I crossed my arms over my chest.

"If you thought you had a sissy on your hands, Colonel Hardy, you just might want to think again," I murmured.

* * *

The next morning after breakfast in the mess hall, a reticent young officer took me to what was known around the base as "the Chasm," the huge hole bored into the ice by the meltdown generator. I was able to get up close and personal with the Chasm, but peering down the seemingly bottomless hole made me queasy. I probably stepped away more quickly than I should've, if I wanted to keep up my tough-girl image.

I didn't see Colonel Hardy anymore, so I spent my time talking to the men at the work site instead. Some were talkative, especially the Arctic Cargo workers; they didn't really have anything invested in this job other that the prospect of good pay, and were willing to tell everything they knew or had heard. The military personnel were much more tight-lipped, but I nailed a few who offered me their opinions on what the mysterious object could possibly be.

"Flash-frozen super-whale," one guy said, and in complete seriousness. "Y'know, back when the Ice Age hit? Poor dude probably got caught in the sudden freeze-up of the North Pole. Bet you any amount of money that's what it is down there."

"A thousand-foot whale?" I asked, smiling a little.

"Sure, why not? Everything was bigger back then, right? Look at the dinosaurs!"

I wasn't so sure about that theory, but I took it down nevertheless. Another man suggested the object was a UFO and I almost laughed out loud at that, but most surmised it was a submarine and there was something wrong with the theory that the ultra-thick ice automatically meant the object had been buried for centuries.

To be honest, I couldn't think up another logical explanation myself.

After lunch, again in the mess hall, I ventured out to the work site by myself. I didn't get up close to the Chasm this time; I stayed at a safe distance, leaning against a metal railing set up around an observational deck that looked down into the hole. I fiddled with the Nikon strapped around my neck and peered up at the towering, always-roaring generator.

"Well, you must be the little lady from that newspaper down in Metropolis!"

I whirled, saw a man I didn't recognize mounting the steps of the observational deck. He was a heavy-set fellow with a flaccid, chapped face. As he drew closer, my sharp sense of smell detected cigarette smoke and beer.

"Found an interesting story, sweetie?" he asked, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose.

"Yes, very interesting," I said, trying to remain civil but not necessarily friendly. I turned from him, changed a setting on my Nikon so I'd look busy.

He leaned against the railing and scooted closer to me, his voice lowering. "I can tell you a little bit about that there hole if you've got a spare minute, little lady."

A chill ran up my spine. There was something about this guy and the way he looked at me that made me uncomfortable. Even the Big Ag representative in Washington hadn't made me this uneasy, probably because there'dbeen a mahogany desk between us. Mere inches separated me from this much larger, much stronger man.

"I'd love to take your thoughts down, sir, but I've got a deadline to meet," I said, trying to back away. "I need to get some of these pictures emailed to my editor—"

His hand clamped down on my wrist; he took a step closer so that he towered over me, his eyes taking on a wild, drunken light. "Oh come on, honey, don't be shy . . ."

"_Chuck!_"

The voice was like a gunshot in the thin air. I whirled and so did my companion. A tall man in a coat and a baseball cap beneath his hood stood with one foot on the bottom step of the observation deck. In spite of the glare he didn't wear sunglasses, and his young, chiseled face was covered in dark scruff.

_Joe_. The name flashed through my head. _The quiet guy who carried my duffle bag_.

"Let her go, Chuck," Joe called in a commanding voice, the kind you didn't dare disobey unless you wanted trouble.

"Oh, stick it where the sun don't shine, Wilder," Chuck spat.

"I said, _let her go_," Joe said, and this time it sounded like he spoke through clenched teeth.

My heart felt like it had decided to stop beating altogether; I didn't want to be caught between two fighting men in this confined space so many feet from the ground. A moment's hesitation passed over Chuck's face . . . a moment too long. Joe sprinted up the metal steps, and before either Chuck or I could react, he had the man's collar in both hands. I staggered back against the railing as he jerked Chuck away from me.

"Terrorize her again, Chuck, and I'll make you wish you hadn't," Joe snapped. "And don't let me catch you drinking booze during working hours again or I'll recommend Eubanks fire you on the spot. Get out of here before I decide not to go so easy on you."

He gave Chuck a hard push down the steps; Chuck yelped, grabbed the railing, and waddled away rubbing the back of his neck and cursing under his breath. Joe turned towards me, his face softening with concern.

"Are you all right, Miss Lane?"

I allowed myself to breathe again. "Yeah. Thanks for getting me out of that tight spot."

Joe shook his head. "Chuck's one of those guys who can't go more than a few weeks without

female company or alcohol. I'd avoid him if I were you."

"I wasn't exactly seeking his company," I said with a small, wry smile.

"I know, but . . ." He hesitated, seemed to choose his words with care. "Too many of these

guys go absolutely crazy at the sight of a woman. They've been stuck on Ellesmere too long. For your own sake, I wouldn't come this close to the work site without an escort."

Under any other circumstance, I probably would've bristled and asked if he thought I couldn't take care of myself. As it was, I simply nodded, didn't even think about challenging his advice.

"I'll be more careful after this, I promise. Thanks again, Joe . . . ?"

"Wilder," he said. "Joe Wilder."

"Lois Lane—but you already knew that," I said, and offered my hand. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gently shook it.

"How long have _you_ been working on Ellesmere, Joe?" I asked.

"Three months."

I gestured with my head towards Chuck's retreating figure. "You seem to have some authority around here."

Joe shrugged. I realized he was very broad in the shoulders; that parka must've been hiding one heck of a body. "I'm the foreman of his work crew. We have one of the day shifts."

"You must've proved yourself pretty responsible for Eubanks to put you in charge of a work crew in such a short amount of time."

His smile deepened, though it didn't necessarily broaden. "Are you interviewing me, Miss Lane?"

I laughed. "I've been interviewing all day, although some of it's been more to satisfy my own curiosity than for my actual work. It's fascinating to think men like you would come up to this wasteland simply for an ample paycheck."

Joe said nothing, just smiled thoughtfully at me. I nodded towards the dig site.

"What do you think's down there?" I asked.

Joe drew the bill of his baseball cap a little further down his forehead. "If I told you, you'd probably laugh at me."

"No, I don't think I would," I said with a dry laugh. "I've been told it's everything from an Ice Age-era whale to a UFO. There's not much left to laugh at once you've heard stuff like that."

Joe hesitated, slammed his hands in his pockets, and gazed around. His eyes were a deep blue and I saw a few dark curls peeking out from underneath his cap. He was a good-looking guy and distinctly American, judging from his clear Midwest accent.

_Wouldn't I love to know what brought him all the way up here._

"Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Lane," he finally said, drawing his gaze back to me. "I don't really have any ideas worth mentioning."

That was that; I knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he wasn't going to trust me with his opinion, no matter how long or hard I pressed him. I offered an understanding nod. He held his hand out to me again.

"Want me to walk you back to the base?"

"Sure," I said, glad for the company and the protection. Even if Chuck or any surly characters like him were lurking around, I had a feeling they wouldn't dare come near me if Joe was there to ward them off with one cold, commanding glare.


	3. Gone Without a Trace

I couldn't sleep. My pillow felt hard as a rock tonight, and I was cold even under all my blankets and with the small electric heater running beside my cot. The incessant roar of the generator on top of the ice shelf made the whole shelter rattle.

Finally I sat up. The room was too cold to wander around even in my flannel pajamas, so I pulled my thermal pants and shirt on over them and jerked my arms through the sleeves of my parka. Plopping down on the ice chest I'd converted into an office chair, I opened my laptop and went through the photos I'd taken of the excavation site earlier in the day.

_You know what would be cool? A photograph of that generator at night. _

My fingers paused over the keyboard. Next thing I knew, I was zipping up my parka and putting my socks and boots on. I snapped a lens onto my Nikon, and making sure that I didn't accidentally lock myself out of my shelter, I stepped outside.

The air was bitterly cold and a harsh wind skittered over the snowy landscape. As I glanced up at the generator, I almost gasped. The generator towered above the base and radiated an eery, pale green color. I lifted my Nikon to my face and snapped a picture.

Something moved in the corner of my eye as soon as the camera clicked. I lowered the Nikon and searched the craggy ice shelf in vain for the source of the movement. Puzzled, I glanced at the camera screen and started zooming in on the photo to the approximate location of the odd, fluttering movement.

My eyes hadn't been playing tricks on me after all. There _was_ a person up there. And even from this distance, he looked suspiciously like Joe. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired.

But that dark hair was bare to the wind, and he wore only blue jeans and a white shirt. With the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

"Where the hell are you going?" I muttered. _And who in their right mind comes out here in skimpy clothes like that, anyway? _

I bit my lip, glanced over my shoulder at my hut and then at the big main building a hundred yards away. Colonel Hardy's words came back to me. "_Try not to wander . . . If a blizzard were __to roll in, we wouldn't find your body until next spring._"

But there weren't any clouds in the sky, and I didn't recall any weather warnings earlier in the day. It didn't seem like blizzard weather at all. I clenched my jaw and strode back to the hut. I grabbed the flashlight out of my duffle bag, slammed the door shut behind me again, and walked with long, determined strides through the snow towards the ice shelf.

Joe was several hundred yards above the ground and below the top of the ice shelf when I'd spotted him, and at first I was concerned I might not be able to get up that high. Thankfully, as soon as I approached the ice shelf, I found the climb wouldn't be that bad at all. I gripped cold black rocks and slippery, jagged ice, forcing myself up until I found a rough, upward path. I picked my way cautiously the higher I got; the idea of plummeting to my death was pretty unappealing.

_Not to mention the fact that I don't want to give Colonel Hardy the satisfaction of finding my body next spring._

The path turned and I couldn't see what was beyond the corner. I approached slowly, almost on tiptoe . . . and stopped in my tracks when I saw, to my left, the opening of a tunnel in the ice.

Warm stream blew into my face from inside the tunnel and I heard the echo of dripping water. Stunned, I shone my flashlight on the walls and floor of the tunnel. It looked as if it would take me on a downward slope.

_Don't go in there, Lois, you might never get out again. _

I swear, that was my mother's voice warning me against going on. With one last glance behind me I took a step forward, careful not to slip on the wet floor.

I walked until the tunnel opening was long gone. I walked until the watch on my gloved wrist went from eight o'clock to nine-thirty. When I coughed, the resulting echo scared the crap out of me. It was surprisingly warmer in here and not just because there was some powerful heat force up ahead of me; the wind couldn't get to me in here, either.

Suddenly my foot slipped. I screamed, sliding on my rear down the sloping path and coming to a stop only when it abruptly turned level. I winced, rubbing my thigh, and sucked in my breath as my eyes locked on the huge object looming above me.

I was deep in the heart of the glacier, and stretching more than a thousand feet long and some two or three hundred feet high in front of me was . . . I didn't know what it was. But it wasn't a frozen whale, and it definitely wasn't a submarine. I staggered to my feet, still rubbing the back of my thigh, and crept towards it. I'd never felt so small in my life.

_I don't think . . . _I swallowed, dared to finish my thought. _I don't think it's from this world. _

There was an open door leading into the enormous structure. I didn't hesitate this time; I'd come this far, I wasn't about to run back now. Biting my lips to keep back an excited smile, I walked right through the door and found myself in a wide, high-ceilinged corridor. The floor was metal and the curved walls were made of a smooth stone that reminded me of mother-of-pearl. An S-shaped emblem was engraved in the middle of the ceiling above my head and repeated all down the hall.

"Toto," I whispered, half-smiling in wonder, "I _really _don't think I'm in Kansas anymore."

I turned on my Nikon, started taking pictures. If I'd had more light I could've taken better photos, but at least I was able to capture the mother-of-pearl walls and the elegant emblems on the ceiling as I moved forward with more confidence down the hall.

I'd completely forgotten about Joe.

I turned a corner and was striding contentedly down another hallway when the whole place suddenly burst with light. I let out a high-pitched shriek of surprise and jumped back. Lit up like this, everything looked even more magnificent. Like a grand hall leading to a royal chamber . . .

I heard a soft, mechanical whir behind me. My heart jumped into my throat; I turned and saw a hovering machine moving slowly down the hall towards me. It looked a little like that heater in my hut, tall and slender, with illuminated buttons on its head. I stepped to the side, intrigued, and raised my camera.

_Hardy is not gonna believe me until I drag him down here to see it for himself . . . and boy, will Perry be a happy man. So much for that Soviet submarine._

I snapped the picture and the flash went off.

The next thing I knew I heard a gunshot—or something that sounded like a gunshot—and was thrown backwards against the wall. My camera dropped out of my hands. I slid to the floor, burning pain surging through my gut.

The robot whooshed up to me. Two long, slender grey tentacles flicked out from its sides like cobras, getting ready to put me out of my misery. My breath came in gasps and it hurt to breathe; when I pressed a hand to my side I felt something warm, wet, and sticky. The robot gave a menacing whir. The tentacles drew back for the kill.

The idea of dying here with absolutely no chance of being found until the meltdown generator reached this ship was suddenly more terrifying than freezing to death in a blizzard. I shut my eyes and found myself praying harder than I'd done since the day my mother handed Dad the divorce papers.

_Dear God, let me live._

A shout and a crash made my eyes fly open. The robot wrestled with a man, writhing, trying to force its tentacles out of the compartments my rescuer had slammed shut.

The man wore blue jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

I tried to scoot away from the unearthly wrestling match. The sight of that man's bare hands crushing the robot like it was made of aluminum foil scared me out of my panicking mind, and I wanted nothing more than to get away from both of them.

Joe tossed the crumpled, sparking robot away with a vengeful shout and started walking—fast—towards me. I shrieked, tried to get to my feet, but I slipped in my own blood and slammed to the floor again with a scream. I felt those strong hands on my shoulders.

"It's all right, it's all right!" he cried. "It's all right!"

He rolled me over onto my back; I fought him, gasping and crying, until he pinned me down with his hands firmly pressed to my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. As soon as I met his eyes, my panic began to ease. His blue eyes were gentle, just as they'd been on the observational deck this afternoon.

He gazed down at me, first with concern and then, after a glance at my stomach, a pleading question. I managed to nod. I was shaking violently and that alone scared me. _I can't go into shock, I can't, oh God, let me live . . . _I shut my eyes, trying to focus on something other than the pain, as Joe unbuttoned my parka and pulled my shirt up a few discreet inches.

"Miss Lane."

I opened my eyes and found my vision blurry with tears. Normally I'd be ashamed at myself, but I was honestly too scared to think about my self-respect. Joe spoke calmly, his hands no longer pinning me to the floor but gently rubbing my upper arms in a slow, comforting motion.

"You're hemorrhaging internally. If I don't cauterize this bleed . . ."

His voice trailed off and he pressed his lips together. Another burst of pain almost blinded me and I gasped, a raw, choking sound.

"How can—you—"

Joe smiled a little sadly. "I can do things other people can't."

_No kidding_, I thought. One of his hands moved down and his warm, strong fingers laced with mine.

"Hold my hand," he whispered. "This is going to hurt."

_What? What's going to hurt, what are you doing, how—_

His eyes were glowing before I could muster the strength to ask my questions out loud, and thin red beams shot out from them into the pulsing round wound in my bare stomach.

It was as if someone thrust a red-hot poker into me. I craned my neck back, a long, agonized scream forcing its way out of my throat as the cauterizing beams seared the wound. I clenched Joe's hand; he squeezed mine back. The only thing I could think about was, _Don't writhe, don't writhe, don't make his job more difficult, stay still and you'll live . . ._

Then the burning was gone; Joe gasped, pressed a hand to his eyes as if they hurt. I fell back, sobbing weakly. Joe lowered his hand and quickly pulled my shirt down, buttoned my parka up again. I groaned as he slipped his arms underneath me and stood, cradling me against his chest.

He felt hard as a rock.

"It's okay," he whispered. He sat down somewhere and rocked me, brushing my hair back from my face with his hand. "It's okay, you're going to be okay . . ."

My eyelids felt heavy, but I wasn't shaking anymore and I didn't feel so cold. This was a safe sleep . . . I wasn't going to die . . . I'd be okay. The vague thought that I needed to thank him flitted through my fading consciousness, but I didn't have the strength to speak. I just buried my face in his broad chest and submitted to the need for sleep.

* * *

The roar of helicopter blades and ice-cold wind woke me. I forced my eyes open and was almost blinded by the light.

_I died and went to heaven, didn't I? Gotta be only way to explain the light. _

My own humor, however, reassured me that I was very much alive. I was on my back, cold snow beneath me, cloudless sky and a helicopter above me. Someone was coming down on a winch. Someone tall and skinny.

In other words, not Joe.

"Miss Lane!" the man shouted, falling on his knees beside me. "Miss Lane, are you all right?"

"I'm alive," I said, my voice sounding very small and hoarse. "Where's my . . . where's my camera . . ."

"We'll look for your camera later, ma'am. Right now I need to get you into that chopper before you develop hypothermia. Can you stand up?"

I took the hand he offered to me, but when he tried to pull me to my feet I fell back with a cry. Pain shot through my side and I burst into groaning sobs. The man snatched a radio from his belt, started talking fast.

"She's hurt. Bring down a sling, we're gonna have to lift her into the helicopter. And contact the hospital in Alert, let them know what's going on."

I said little as I was lifted into the chopper and put on a stretcher. The officer who'd rescued me was obviously an army doctor; he checked my pulse and ordered the pilot to turn up the heat so I'd start warming up.

The helicopter landed in Alert, where my stretcher was carried by running orderlies into the army hospital. In the privacy of a examining room several nurses talked to me in stern monotones, forcing me to stay awake while they cut off my bloodstained clothes. I felt numb. Memories of Joe crushing that robot and carrying me through the halls of that . . . that ship . . . it all still seemed like a dream.

And yet, when the doctor came in and examined the half-dollar-sized blackened spot just below my ribcage, I knew it couldn't be a dream.

* * *

I was sitting in my hospital bed the next morning, eating a breakfast of JELL-O and apple juice because apparently the nurses didn't think I'd be able to hold down anything heavier, when the door opened and Dr. Bryan walked in. I nearly dropped my spoon when Colonel Hardy strode in behind him.

"Good to see you alive, Miss Lane," Hardy said, holding out his hand to me. I expected him to make some smart comment about my wandering off, but it never came. "How are you feeling?"

I gave him a hesitant smile. "I'm still pretty sore, but I think I'll manage. Thank you."

"Now that you're on the mend, the colonel and I need to ask you some important questions," Dr. Bryan said. He was a sharp-featured, grey-haired man with the bedside manners of a fence post. "You were found a fourth of a mile north of the NORTHCOM base with a cauterized bullet wound in your side. What happened to you and why did you wander so far from the camp?"

I pushed my tray aside, wincing as I forced myself into a better sitting position. "Can I ask you a question of my own first?"

"Of course," Hardy said, quietly.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"We got a call. Someone called the base and said you could be found exactly where we did find you. That and your wound led us to believe you ran into someone . . . that maybe you were, umm . . . _attacked._ By one of the workers on the base."

"No, no, it was nothing like _that_, I promise," I said quickly. Relief swept over Hardy's weathered face. "I was _not_ attacked—not by a human anyway."

"Then what did happen?" Dr. Bryan prodded.

I took a deep breath. "I had just stepped outside to take pictures of the generator at night and I planned to go right back inside. But while I was out there, I saw a man walking along a ridge in the ice shelf. I recognized him as a—a friend of mine—"

"Who was he?" Hardy asked.

"One of the workers," I said, cringing as soon as I said it; I didn't want to rekindle Hardy's fear that I'd been raped. "His name is Joe Wilder. _Really_ nice guy."

Hardy stiffened. I waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. I went on, more careful with my words this time.

"I was curious, and I followed him all the way into this tunnel in the ice shelf. It looked like it had just been carved open with some kind of heat . . ." I stopped, suddenly remembered Joe's burning eyes. _He made the tunnel. He made that unbelievable tunnel . . ._

"Go on," Dr. Bryan said impatiently.

I swallowed. "The tunnel led into the glacier and I followed it for about an hour and a half. It led me right into the heart of the glacier and I—I found what you've been drilling for, Colonel. I saw it."

He frowned. "What did you find?"

"It was—" I paused, glanced nervously at the doctor. "I think . . . I don't think it was from this world, Colonel. I know you may think I'm crazy, and I wouldn't blame you if you did . . . but I think it was an alien spacecraft."

"Hah!" Dr. Bryan cried.

I ignored him. "I walked inside the ship. There was an open door and I just walked in—wait a minute, did anyone get my camera? I can show you the interior, I took some pictures!"

"No one found your camera," Hardy said. "Just go on."

My heart sank; without the Nikon, I had nothing but my own memories to prove my story. Plus, that thing had been darned expensive.

"There was some kind of robot inside the ship. It attacked me when I tried to take a picture of it and shot me in the stomach. It was about to finish me off when . . . when Joe came." I shut my eyes, remembering the terrifying sight. "He destroyed it. With his bare hands."

The men were silent. I opened my eyes, spoke slowly and carefully. "I was bleeding and he cauterized my wound. The next thing I knew, I was outside on the ice and the helicopter—"

"Wait, how did he cauterize your wound?" Dr. Bryan demanded. "Did he have medical tools with him in this 'spaceship?' "

"No, sir," I said, my voice very small.

"Then how did he do it?"

"His . . . his eyes, Dr. Bryan."

The doctor's eyes shot up. "Laser vision? Like in one of those crap sci-fi movies?"

I said nothing, only lowered my eyes and felt my face go red. Dr. Bryan drew in a breath and for a moment there was silence. When he spoke again it was in a stern voice that made me feel like a scolded toddler.

"Miss Lane, due to your physical condition I'm recommending that you be sent back to the States at once. You can get much better medical attention there. I'll be frank with you, too: I think the evidence suggests you were attacked by one of the workers and hurt while trying to defend yourself, and the shock of your wound caused you to hallucinate after—"

"I—was—_not_—attacked," I snapped through clenched teeth. "And I _wasn't_ hallucinating. I was in the glacier, I saw the ship, and that man saved my life. Bring him in here and ask him yourself!"

"We can't," Hardy said. "Joe Wilder is gone. Disappeared. Eubanks has no idea where he is."

I stared at him like an idiot. Dr. Bryan slipped his hands into the pockets of his white coat. "I'll arrange your transfer, Miss Lane. The nurses will come in with some clothes for you."

I didn't thank him; he closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with Colonel Hardy. The colonel glanced around a moment and opened his mouth, but I stopped him, glaring daggers at him.

"I know what I saw, Colonel," I hissed.

He nodded slowly. "And I know what I saw, too."

I cocked my head at him. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice. "An hour before we got the call about you, the spaceship broke free of the glacier and flew away."

My mouth fell open. "Oh my God."

"I saw it happen. So did Hamilton and every other man on the base." Hardy rubbed the back of his neck. "The force of that thing breaking loose completely destroyed the meltdown generator. Thank God no one was killed. We thought at first it was an earthquake and Eubanks was able to get his men away in time. And we haven't been able to track the ship."

He paused, but I couldn't say a word. The ship was gone. Joe was gone. My assignment had just fallen apart in front of me.

"I called my superiors and they treated my story the same way Bryan just treated you. They think I've gone s—house crazy." Hardy smiled grimly. "It wouldn't surprise me if I get transferred after this. Nobody wants a maniac in charge of a NORTHCOM base."

"I'm sorry," I murmured.

"Well, it's hardly your fault." He shook my limp hand gently and walked to the door; before he walked out, however, he turned, looked hard at me.

"I wouldn't say much about this if I were you, Miss Lane. Take it from me, unless you want to lose your job, too. Safe travels home."

And then he walked out, shutting the door softly behind him.

* * *

**I meant to address, ****at the beginning of the last chapter,** something mentioned by a guest reviewer. But I forgot, so I'll bring it up here. Yes, I know about Ella Lane..._now_. When I first started writing _Man of Steel _fanfics, however, I had only just seen the movie and knew next to nothing of the Superman canon. So in my first story, _The Girl of Two Worlds_, I gave Lois this really annoying mother and, because I enjoyed writing her character, carried her over into my next story, _Changed For Good_. Lois' mother here is just my personal headcanon and I have a lot of fun with her. (She reminds me of Mrs. Phelan in _The Help_, if anyone's familiar with that character.)

**Thanks for the positive reviews! **


	4. Defiance

My mom picked me up at the Metropolis airport. I was numb with exhaustion and painkillers, which was probably why the sight of her coiffed red hair and drawn, anxious face inspired more relief than wariness. Any relief was short-lived, however. Mom had never been affectionate or gentle; today was no exception.

"Look at you," she said, taking in my unstyled hair and my pale, makeup-deficient face. "You look awful, Lois Joanne. What in heaven's name have you done? Don't tell me you went back to Kabul without your world-famous bulletproof vest."

"No, Mom," I said, barely able to hold up my heavy duffle bag another second. "I . . . I got hypothermia. I was in Canada and I got hypothermia."

I may not have had much of a relationship with my mom, but it still bothered me, the way I could lie to her so easily.

"You wouldn't have had hypothermia if you had yourself a better coat than that one," Mom said, brushing her hand contemptuously against the coat given to me at the Alert hospital. My parka, with the big bloodstained hole in its side, had never been returned to me. But I kept my mouth shut and didn't argue with my mother; she was the one person in the world who didn't need to know what had really happened to me.

I was glad when she dropped me off at my flat and left. I dropped the duffle bag with a crash on the kitchen's tile floor and dragged myself into my bedroom. I'd been in the air for hours. I was tired, cold, and in pain. I started taking off my clothes, fully intending to get into pajamas and sleep as long as my body wanted.

The bandage covering my wound itched, and as I sat on my bed I carefully peeled it off and stared at the ugly burned place. A thin scab was slowly forming over it. I dared not touch it, afraid to damage the new skin.

_I know what I saw. _My teeth clenched at the memory of Dr. Bryan scoffing at me. _He thought I was out of my head, but I was attacked by that robot, and Joe __did__ save my life. And I didn't thank him. _

Tears burned my eyes and I blinked them away hurriedly. No use crying over spilled milk, Dad used to say. Better for me to focus on the assignment I wasn't able to complete on Ellesmere. The only pictures I'd saved onto my computer were of the work site itself and a few of the workers around the meltdown generator. What was I going to write for Perry now? "Oh yes, Mr. White, I walked right into an alien ship before it zoomed up into the sky like a regular Starship Enterprise!"

_Well, heck, why not? _

The thought made my head jerk up and I stared at myself in the mirror opposite my bed. If anybody was going to believe me, it was Perry White. He'd known me for years; he'd know I wasn't telling some sensational story just for the kicks.

"Fine," I said, throwing back my head and glaring at myself in the mirror. "Tomorrow, I'll just start writing down everything that happened. And when I go back to the bull-pen next week, I'll give it to Perry. At least I'll be able to give him _something_. I've never disappointed him with an overdue assignment or a half-baked story and I'm not about to start now."

If anyone saw me sitting there in my underwear talking to my reflection, they would've probably thought I needed psychiatric help. I laughed grimly at the thought and roused myself long enough to get into pajamas. I lay down gingerly on my back with the blankets up to my neck and was asleep in minutes.

* * *

I wrote the whole story in a rush of adrenaline and caffeine the next morning and spent the next week polishing it. The first thing I did before I ever started writing, however, was call Mr. Eubanks' office. After waiting on hold for a few minutes, I finally heard his voice.

"Jed Eubanks."

"Mr. Eubanks? This is Lois Lane, with the _Daily Planet_."

"Oh, Miss Lane!" His voice, while still friendly, sounded a little strained. "How are you? I heard you got a little beat up, had to be sent back to the States for medical attention."

"I'm doing better, thanks. I wanted to ask you about the incident with the, umm . . ." I tapped my pencil on my writing desk. "The discovery in the glacier. Whatever _you_ want to call it."

He paused; when he spoke again, it was in a lowered voice. "Miss Lane, I've been asked not to speak of that incident to anyone outside this base."

I took a deep breath. "I understand. Could I ask you about something else, then? I was wondering if you'd heard from one of your foremen, Joe Wilder. I heard from Colonel Hardy that he disappeared from the base."

Again Mr. Eubanks paused, and this time when he got to talking, he sounded irritated—but not with me. "I had high hopes for that young man, Miss Lane. He was a good sort, respectful, clean-cut, a hard worker. We haven't been able to find him, and I'm startin' to think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, if you know what I mean."

"Oh," I said, "you mean you think he was killed in the 'earthquake.' "

"Yes, ma'am. But I've also discovered in the course of tryin' to contact his next of kin and all that, that there was never any Joe Wilder of Seattle, Washington. Heck, the man didn't even have a d— Social Security card, or at least not a legitimate one. God knows who he really was. I just hope I don't get into a mess with the Defense Department for letting a man with a false identity onto a top-secret government base."

I knew I should've been stunned and horrified, but I could only mumble an "I'm sorry, I hope you get it cleared up soon" and get off the phone as quickly as I could. It didn't surprise me at all that Joe Wilder was a façade.

Ellesmere was briefly in the news on Friday. I stared at the television, biting my thumbnail, while a grim-looking general by the name of Swanwick addressed questions about the mysterious object that had, according to an anonymous tip to CNN, broken free of a glacier on NORTHCOM territory.

"No, there was no ship, alien or otherwise, on that island," General Swanwick said, narrowing his eyes at the reporter in front of him. "All reports from the base on Ellesmere are telling me they now believe it was just an anomaly in the ice caused by the glacier's gradual development. I don't think anyone needs to be worrying about Ice Age-era UFO's or anything like that."

"You weren't there," I snapped at the TV. "Ask Colonel Hardy, he'll tell you what happened. For heaven's sake, ask _me_! I saw the darned thing before it ever got out of the glacier!"

But then I stopped, gulped. Maybe Colonel Hardy wasn't even on Ellesmere anymore. And I might not have a desk at _The Daily Planet _pretty soon if the publishers found out their Pulitzer-prize-winning Lois Lane believed this rumor about an alien spaceship.

By Monday morning I was nervous and trying to convince myself I wasn't. My nails were all bitten down to the quick, but I did my hair as nicely as I knew how and even put on a skirt. My article was printed, double-spaced, stapled at the corner. Sticking it a manila folder and giving myself one last look in the mirror, I strode out of the flat with my jaw clenched until it gave my a headache and I had no choice but to relax.

"Come on in, Lois," Perry said when I opened the door of his office. He stood up, shook my hand. "Good to see you again. You don't look any worse for the wear."

I smiled. "Thanks, Perry."

He rubbed his hands together and sat down again. "So . . . you've refused to tell me much of your story over the phone. I'll have you know, I've been dying of curiosity all week long. I hope you have the whole scoop with you today."

"I do," I said, quickly sitting down in front of his desk and opening the manila folder. "I've been working on it all week. I've got pictures of the work site on my computer that we can use, too. Ready?"

"I couldn't be more ready," Perry said, and sat back with his fingertips pressed together.

My mouth was suddenly dry, and I cleared my throat as quietly as I could. This article had the whole story of my two brief days on the NORTHCOM base. Perry knew next to nothing of it beforehand. He was the only person in Metropolis who would soon know every detail I could remember.

I hardly dared look up at him while I read aloud. I could only force my voice to remain calm, concise, professionally soft. I couldn't afford to make this story sound more sensational than it already was with my tone or facial expressions. But as I reached the part about the attacking robot my adrenaline started racing, and I found myself standing up, pacing the floor, unable to sit still a second longer. I still avoided Perry's gaze.

" 'What various military experts surmised to be a Soviet-era submarine was actually something much more exotic. An isotope analysis of the surrounding ice bores suggests that the object had been trapped within the glacier for over 18,000 years. As for my rescuer? He disappeared during the object's departure. He was working with one of the private contractors assisting in the operation, but a subsequent background check revealed that his work history and identity had been falsified.'

" 'The questions raised by my rescuer's existence are frightening to contemplate. But I also know what I saw. And I have arrived at the inescapable conclusion that the object and its occupant did not originate on Earth.' "

I gripped the back of the chair I'd vacated and lifted my eyes to Perry for the first time. He sat on the edge of his desk now, his arms folded over his broad chest. He was silent a moment; then he took his glasses off and pinched his nose between his eyes.

"I can't publish that, Lois," he said quietly. "You might've hallucinated half of it."

A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. "But what about the civilian contractor who corroborated my story? He saw it, Perry, and so did Colonel Hardy!"

"The Pentagon is denying there even was a ship."

"Of course they are!" I cried angrily. "That's what they're supposed to do—it's the Pentagon!"

Perry sighed, stood up, walked back around his desk towards his chair. I followed him, more desperate than I'd been in years for someone to listen to me.

"Come on, Perry, this is me we're talking about. I'm a Pulitzer-prize-winning reporter!"

"Then act like one," Perry snapped.

I glared at him and heard myself say something I never would've dreamed of saying to Perry White. "Print it, or I walk."

"You can't, you're under contract," he retorted. "And I'm not doing a story about aliens walking among us. Not gonna happen."

I clenched my teeth, released a long breath, and tucked the article beneath my arm. "Okay."

"I'm not gonna force you to take on anymore farm bills, but there _is _a kerfluffle in D.C. over a senator who's under investigation for money laundering." He handed me another manila folder without looking at me. "See if you can untangle that web. As soon as I find something more stimulating, I'll let you know."

"Okay," I said again, feeling a little like an automaton. Perry still avoided my gaze. I clamped my lips together and walked out of his office with my head held high. I wouldn't let any of my co-workers see my disappointment, not if I could help it. 

* * *

_What's the matter with you, Lane? Why are you so upset over this?_

I was curled up on my couch, flipping through channels; nothing was on that interested me and so I turned off the television with a disgusted groan. As I checked my email on my phone, the question ran through my head again.

_What's the matter? Why did it hurt so bad for Perry to stand there and tell you "No"?_

_ Because he's never told me "No." He's always appreciated my work._

_ He didn't ever tell you he didn't appreciate this piece. Just that he wouldn't publish it. And you understand why he wouldn't publish it, too. He's protecting your reputation as much as his and the paper's. Not to mention your job and his, if the publishers found out about your story._

I rubbed my forehead. A little of my guilt and hurt softened, only to rear its head again with a new thought.

_It's Joe who's really bothering me. I didn't thank him. He saved my life and I never thanked him. _

_ Joe could be dead for all you know. Eubanks may be right: he might've been killed when that generator came down. _

My fingers froze over my iPhone screen and I stared up at the ceiling. Joe _wasn't_ dead. He was in that ship when it took off. He was probably the one who called and let Hardy and Company know where I was, because he knew he couldn't take me with him in his real-life Millenium Falcon and yet didn't want me to freeze to death on the ice, hurt and helpless. He was alive and he was out there somewhere, and I was duty-bound to thank him for what he did.

_But if he is an alien, who's to say he's not in outer space right now? Even if you published that story, he'd never know. _

_ No, he's not in outer space. He's alive, and he's on this planet._

_ Oh come on, Lane, how do you know?!_

I sat up, wincing a little; the spot in my side was still sore after a week and a half. Every time I saw it, I thought about the ship and those bright-red laser beams honed in on my stomach. I heard Joe's voice, deep and gentle . . . "It's okay, you're going to be okay . . ."

No man had ever treated me with tenderness, not since my father died in a cold hospital room with nobody but me at his side. The only other men I'd ever come into contact with either treated me with professional tact, contempt, or flirtation. For a complete stranger to rescue me, heal me, comfort me, and then leave me without knowing how much I appreciated it—that tormented me.

Joe didn't _have_ to stop and save me. His sneaking into the ice shelf at night lent credence to my assumption that he was trying to keep his whereabouts and actions secret. If he had just let the robot kill me, he wouldn't have risked the possibility of me getting out and telling people about the alien-man and the ship he flew off of Ellesmere Island.

As far as I knew, he saved my life simply because he was compassionate. I couldn't think of any other possible motivation. He'd only just met me; we exchanged words on the observation deck only a few hours before.

_ I owe him my life. I'm grateful and I have to know that he knows it. I have to get this story out there, even if it kills me. Even if I risk Perry chewing me out—or worse, firing me. It'll be worth knowing I've said "thank you," because it's the right thing to do. I think._

* * *

_The Spectator _was Metropolis' biggest tabloid magazine and its editor, cigarette-smoking, booze-drinking, trendy-glasses-wearing Glen Woodburn, was a former employee of _The Daily Planet_. I first met him when I was an intern and his arrogance turned me off immediately. When Perry fired him, no one was sorry, not even me. Woodburn had been a little too friendly with me in the coffee room one day and I barely got away without smacking him across the face.

Ten years later, I was a self-confident, well-known reporter and he was relegated to the gossip columns. I'm not saying I was vengeful, but there _was_ a certain satisfaction to it.

And now here I was, walking through a bad part of town at night, in the most inconspicuous clothes I could find in my closet, on my way to meet Glen Woodburn. I even wore sunglasses in the dark and had left my hair down around my shoulders. I couldn't risk being recognized down here. I kept my head lowered as I walked through the doors of a seedy bar.

The smoke and reek of alcohol assaulted me as soon as I walked in. Trashy-looking characters lounged at the counter. I lifted my sunglasses and glanced around. The sight of Glen Woodburn sitting further down the counter eased my mind, and I walked briskly towards him.

"Hey," he said, moving his sports jacket off the stool beside his own. "Saved you a seat."

"Thanks," I said, pushing myself onto the stool.

"You okay?" he asked with a familiarity that made me bristle. "You're looking a little . . . _overwraught._"

"Well, _you're_ looking a little flabby," I retorted.

He smirked. "Okay, okay. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

I leaned my elbows against the counter and glanced up at a television. The annual high-stakes basketball game between Metropolis and Gotham City was raging. Everyone in the bar seemed far more interested in it than in me or Woodburn.

"You heard I was on Ellesmere?" I whispered.

"Yeah . . ."

"I understand you've been publishing a few theories about what the military found there."

Woodburn smirked again. "You've been reading _The Spectator_? Didn't you once call it 'a creeping cancer of falsehoods?' Or am I misquoting you?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I stand by my words, Woodburn. But I need my story about Ellesmere published, and my editor won't do it."

"How come?"

"I'm about to prove to the world that those theories about a UFO buried beneath the ice are more accurate than anyone think. White won't publish the article because he doesn't want to risk compromising the _Planet's _integrity. That's fine. The _Planet _doesn't have to publish it."

With that, I reached into my purse and held up a tiny memory stick. Woodburn's eyebrows shot up.

"_You_, however, will have an eyewitness account from someone who saw the very ship the Pentagon's now denying ever existed," I whispered. "All I ask is that you publish it two months from now. That'll give me time to prepare for backlash from my publishers . . . and to see if I can't dredge up some more information about the man who saved my life. I have reason to suspect he's intimately connected with the origins of the ship."

"Okay," Woodburn said slowly. He reached for the memory stick, but I jerked it out his reach.

"Two months. Swear it," I hissed.

He nodded, swallowed. "Two months. It'll go in the August issue."

I held him with my eyes for a few seconds more, then extended the drive to him. He stashed it in his wallet.

"You hold to that promise and I'll feed you my story about that man I mentioned, as soon as I get enough info."

Now he was the one to narrow his eyes at me. "Why?"

"Because I want my mystery man to know I know the truth about him," I replied. I snapped my purse shut, forced a tight little smile, and slid off the stool. "See you later, Woodburn."


	5. Investigation: Phase One

**A bit of a shorter chapter this time, but that's okay :)**

* * *

"Miss Lane!" Jed Eubanks cried, almost falling out of the chair in his spartan office. "I didn't expect to see you back on Ellesmere!"

I smiled, extended my hand. "I honestly hadn't expected to come back."

"I hope you're not headin' back to the NORTHCOM base," he said with a wry smile. "Not much going on up there anymore, y'know."

"I know," I said with a nod. "And really, Mr. Eubanks, the NORTHCOM people don't know I'm here and I'd prefer to keep it that way. I came here to talk to _you_."

A worried look crept over his face and he lowered his voice. "Miss Lane, you know I've been asked to keep quiet about that spaceship . . ."

"Yes, I know," I said quickly. "And I'm not here to talk about it. I want to know more about Joe Wilder."

He shook his head. "Never found him. Guy's either dead or shipped off to God-knows-where, for God-knows-what-reason."

"I don't even want to know where he went," I said. "All I want to know is what you knew _about_ him."

Eubanks drew a long, weary breath. "Why?"

I chose my words carefully, avoiding any mention of the second article I planned to write. "I'm hoping I can track him and thank him for a favor he did for me. And if he's dead . . . well, hopefully I can find his family and thank them for raising him to have compassion on a total stranger."

Eubanks looked hard at me for a second. Then he slammed his big hands into his pockets, spoke in a whisper.

"During our own investigation, we found out he signed up for the job at the Arctic Cargo office in Baker Lake. Know where that is?"

"Umm . . ."

"It's in the Northwest Territories. Apparently, when he applied, he mentioned he'd hitchhiked all the way from Yellowknife. That's the capital of the Northwest Territories, and a good piece southwest of Baker Lake."

"Yellowknife," I murmured, and whipped a notepad from my new parka's front pocket. Eubanks watched as I wrote down the name. "I don't guess there's much else you know about him?"

"Just his character," Eubanks said. "In spite of him leavin' me high and dry, he was a good man. Well-spoken, a little quiet. Gave the impression he'd had a good education. I know he wrote home . . ."

"Any idea where he was sending it?" I demanded eagerly.

He shook his head. "Nope, just knew he was writin' home to his mom."

_A mama's boy_, I thought, and barely smothered a smile.

"He was always concerned about the well-being of the men beneath him," Eubanks went on. "He'd go around making sure no one was sufferin' from the cold too bad. We had a man fall from a platform one day and break his leg. The bone was poking right out of his torn leggings. Joe picked him up and carried him to the medical bay like he didn't weigh more than a sack of potatoes."

I wrote all this down in shorthand, determined not to lose a word. Eubanks strode back to his desk and reached into a drawer, pulled out a piece of photo paper. He held it out to me and I saw that it was a black-and-white photo of Joe. It was fuzzy, as if someone had zoomed in on a much larger, wider photo, but it was distinct enough for me to know my rescuer right away.

"That's about all I can tell you, Miss Lane. Go ahead and take this. It's one of the copies we used during the investigation. We dead-ended in Yellowknife . . . but maybe you can find out more than we did."

I took the photo, forcing myself to give it no more than a quick glance and then turn my eyes back to Eubanks. "Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it."

* * *

"This isn't going to be easy," I muttered. "But thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for _this_ idea. Now just give me your powers of deduction and I'll be indebted to you forever."

I stood in front of a wall in my living room where, inspired by the British TV show I spent way too much time watching last year, I had just hung up a big bulletin board where I could collect my clues in one place. Joe's picture was tacked in the center; surrounding it were notes from my interview with Eubanks yesterday morning. I was able to get back to Metropolis and go to work this morning without Perry ever finding out I'd been out of the country.

"Okay, Lane," I whispered. "Think, think. Your next link has got to be Yellowknife. But how do you know where to look in Yellowknife?"

I jerked my hand away from my mouth; I'd started biting my fingernails again, a childhood habit I'd never really conquered. My eyes landed on that picture of Joe Wilder for the millionth time since Eubanks gave it to me, and I jabbed my finger at it.

"I'm gonna find out who you are, Joe Wilder," I said, half-laughing. "Just watch me."

The photo showed my rescuer in a heavy coat. He was bare-headed and walking away from the camera, craning his head over his shoulder, obviously looking at something behind the photographer. I took a step closer, narrowed my eyes at him. I could almost imagine he was about to smile. If only that photographer had waited just a second longer . . .

The sudden ringing of my phone made me jump and I snatched it from my pocket. My mom's number was on the screen. I groaned, but took the call.

"Lois, do you have plans for the weekend?" Mom said without waiting for me to even say "hello."

"Um, yeah, I do, actually," I said, with one last sidelong glance at Joe. _I'm off to Yellowknife come hell or high water._

"Oh, too bad," Mom said, clicking her tongue. "Because I was hoping you could come over and stay the weekend, maybe have dinner with me and Mrs. Stockett and her cousin—"

"Wish I could, Mom, but I have an assignment."

"Is that Perry White slave-driving you over the weekends?" Mom demanded. "I have half a mind to call him and tell him what I think of his treatment of you."

"No, no!" I cried, a little too earnestly. "No, Mom, I promise, I'm fine. I enjoy the work. It's not slave-driving, I really love it. Please, Mom, don't call Perry, he's got enough on his plate as it is."

My mom reluctantly promised, once I begged, that she wouldn't bother Perry. When I got off the phone I breathed a sigh of relief. If Perry found out what I was doing, I'd be in hot water for sure. Especially since he expected me to devote my time to that stupid senator and his money problems on Capitol Hill.

I glanced at Joe again and smirked "I hope you appreciate the trouble I'm risking for you."

Joe said nothing, just looked over his shoulder at me with that unbearable tease of a smile.

* * *

I was looking for evidence of Joe Wilder in Yellowknife. It didn't surprise me that I couldn't find much under that particular name; a man with a falsified identity probably changed his name often. The search was on instead for a young man who matched his physical description: tall and exceptionally muscular, exceptionally handsome, blue-eyed, with a head full of dark curly hair. A gentle giant.

How to find anyone who knew him, however, was the problem.

A couple nights later, after googling "Urban legends in Northwest Canada" in my desperation for clues, I found a crazy story on an online forum about a trucker whose eighteen-wheeler was crumpled by an angry busboy in the parking lot of a Yellowknife bar. I leaped up with a shriek of delight and in the process knocked over my chair.

Then I clapped my hands over my mouth, hoping my neighbors in the flat next door hadn't heard me. I quickly straightened my chair, found the name of the trucker. Ray Ludlow. _Okay, Ray Ludlow, please have your number posted somewhere on the internet, and please let there be only one or two Ray Ludlows in Canada . . . calm down, Lane, this may have absolutely __nothing__ to do with your story!_

After rifling through Canadian phone records, I found a number that looked promising and called. My heart pounded until I heard a gruff voice ask, "Hello?" and then my heart promptly skipped a beat.

"Is this Ray Ludlow?" I asked.

"Yeah," the voice grumbled.

"Hi, I'm Lois Lane with _The Daily Planet_, and I was wondering if I could talk to you about an incident in the parking lot of the bar on Georgia Street—"

_Click. _The phone went dead. I pulled it from my ear and redialed. Ludlow never picked up. I set my phone back on the table and stuck out my tongue at it.

"Well fine, Mr. Ludlow," I muttered. "I'll just get the scoop without your help, thank _you_."

I arrived in Yellowknife on Saturday morning and asked the taxi driver to take me straight to the bar on Georgia Street. He looked a little stunned at my request—I probably didn't look like the kind that frequented a trucker bar—but he took me there without argument. When I arrived, it was just after ten and breakfasting truckers had pretty much cleared out.

Two young, skinny busboys and a dark-haired waitress wiped down tables, talking and laughing with each other. As soon as I walked through the door they stopped, stared at me in surprise. The girl whispered something to the young men and approached me with a quick, warm smile. The tag on her shirt read "Chrissy."

"Hello, ma'am. Something I can do for you?"

In spite of my weariness after being on a plane all night long, I smiled back at her. "Are you still serving breakfast?"

"Uh, yeah! Serving till eleven."

"Great, I'm starved." I caught her questioning look and allowed myself to laugh at my own absurdity. "I know, you probably don't catch many women coming in here, but I'm actually a reporter. I was hoping I could talk to someone about the incident of a busted eighteen-wheeler that happened last September."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Oh! You want to know about _that_? How come?"

"I'm doing a piece on urban legends." _Gosh, I'm becoming a consummate liar. _"Do you know the story?"

"Know it? I _lived_ it!" the girl laughed. "Hang on, ma'am, let me get you something to eat, and I'll ask my boss if it's okay if I sit down with you. Won't be getting much business till lunch anyway."

Astounded at my luck, I found myself sitting at a table with a hearty meal in front of me. My mother always scolded me for enjoying my food too much and prophesied I'd have a flabby figure by the time I was her age if I didn't keep an eye on myself. I threw caution to the wind and ate every bite of the pancakes and bacon while the waitress sat opposite me and almost talked my head off.

"I'd only been working here a few months, but that creep Ludlow had taken a liking to me," she confessed. "I managed to avoid him up until that night in September, when he got too friendly. Started touching me where he ought not. I slapped his hand away and he got angry, and that's when Will MacFarlane came in."

"Wait, who's Will?" I asked around a mouthful of pancake.

Chrissy blushed and looked down at her lap, trying unsuccessfully to hold back a smile. "He was one of the busboys. Cutest guy I ever met. I liked him a lot, even though he was so shy he'd turn red as a beet if a girl so much as showed a little flash of skin."

"Uh-huh," I mumbled.

"Anyway, Will saw what was going on and came over and made Ludlow stop. Well, that just made Ludlow even angrier, and he stood up and dumped all his beer on top of Will's head."

"What did he do?"

Chrissy's eyes widened. "_Nothing_. He just stood there. But he gave Ludlow a look that would curdle milk. Guess Ludlow was even more irritated that Will wouldn't fight, so he tried to push him, but Will just stood there and Ludlow staggered back, like he'd just punched a brick wall. Will was a big guy, you didn't push him around," she added with an admiring nod of her head.

I stared at her, gulped hard. "Then what?"

"Well, when Ludlow pushed him, that made Will mad. He took a step forward and I think he might've punched Ludlow if I hadn't begged him to calm down. He kinda blinked and nodded and went out. Ludlow threw his mug at his head but Will just kept walking."

"And he damaged the truck?"

Chrissy stared at her painted fingernails and nodded. "We never saw him again after that. But when Ludlow came out—you know those big log trucks, Miss Lane? They carry maybe a hundred long, heavy logs at a time and take them to the paper mills. Well, when Ludlow came out, there were three logs slammed through his truck like they were nothing but _toothpicks_."

"So you just assumed it was Will who did it?"

Chrissy smiled wryly. "There wasn't anyone else in Yellowknife who could've done it. Like I said, Will was a big guy and really strong. You'd think he'd be mean and stupid like Ludlow, but he wasn't. Will could quote poetry off the top of his head."

"Sounds like you had a sweet spot for him," I said with a teasing smile.

Chrissy giggled. "Every girl who met him had a sweet spot for Will."

I cleared my throat and reached into my satchel. I handed a copy of Joe Wilder's picture to her. "Is that Will, Chrissy?"

Her face broke out into a smile. "Yes! That's Will! Where'd you take that picture?"

"I didn't take it, it was given to me by someone else who knew him." I swallowed down my growing excitement. "I did meet him, though. He defended me from another jerk like Ludlow."

"Oh, then you know how nice he is." Chrissy smiled sweetly. "If you see him again, tell him Chrissy said 'hi.' "

"I will," I said, wiping my mouth on my napkin. "Oh, one more thing. Do you have any idea where Will came from? If he had any family, or where he'd lived before Yellowknife? Or was he from around here?"

"Oh no, he wasn't from here, he was an American," Chrissy said quickly. "I know he had a mama, he talked about her all the time."

"Any idea where he worked before he came here?"

Chrissy frowned, thinking. "No . . . but I know he knew a lot about farming."

* * *

_Will_. Back in my flat on Sunday night, I lay on my back staring at the photo. He wasn't "Joe" anymore; he was Will. I liked it better. It had more of a refined, gentle sound. I smirked at his face and shook my head.

"Okay, Will—until I find out you had another name before you made Ray Ludlow's truck your target practice—where do you want to take me next?"

Will said nothing. I cocked my head at him. He quoted poetry. He didn't ogle the women, but defended them from surly truckers and Arctic Cargo workmen. There was a mother back home whom he adored. He wasn't above a fit of anger. Those blue eyes could turn red as fire and stop the hemorrhage in a screaming woman's insides. Every girl in Yellowknife had a crush on him.

I stepped closer to the photo, and for the first time, let my fingertips run over his face. An odd, pleasurable shudder ran through me. Recognizing it, I drew my hand back hastily.

_ I am __not__ going to crush on a guy I'm investigating. Pull yourself together and go to bed. _

But I still turned on the way to my room for one last look, and had to admit that the profile I was finally starting to gather of this man was a very impressive one.


	6. Investigation: Phase Two

**The more I write this story the more fascinated I am with Lois Lane and with Amy Adams' portrayal of her; I really hope I do her justice. And as I think about the movie and Clark & Lois' friendship/romance, I keep finding all these interesting little gaps that Zack Snyder left completely to his audience's imagination! So my creative muse has given me little rest since I started this story. And that's okay; I'm at my happiest when I have an exciting project ;)**

* * *

"Ouch, doggone-it!" I hissed, drawing my hand back from the barrette that had just pinched my finger. Mom stepped up and swatted my other hand away, fastening the barrette gracefully.

"There now," she said, giving me a long, critical look. "I really think you ought to color your hair a shade darker than it is now. In some lighting it has the vibrance of straw."

I fluffed the long curls I'd worked for with the patience of a saint. "It looks red enough right now, Mother, and I don't think Mr. Pollard is going to be worrying about my hair color."

"Well, just keep this side draped over your shoulder like so, and for heaven's sake, Lois, be friendly. Mr. Pollard is an especial friend of Mrs. Boudreaux and probably will be the most distinguished man there tonight. Please don't humiliate me in front of everybody."

I smothered an exasperated sigh. Mr. Pollard, filthy-rich and single, owned a major oil company and Mom was almost giddy over the prospect of introducing me to him. Never mind that he was a good fifteen years older than me. As Mom would say, "He's an opportunity."

The charity benefit was at the home of a friend of Mom's and would include several members of the press, including Perry. As soon as we got there I skillfully maneuvered my way towards him. Perry was an island of common sense in this glittering mess of shallow conversation.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked quietly as I sidled up to him.

"Just got here and I'm already half-smothered by the perfume. You look dapper this evening."

He extended his arms from the side, as if to show off his perfectly-fitted suit. "Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."

Coming from no-nonsense Perry, that was a compliment of the first order. "Well get a good look, because it's not often you get to see me acting or looking like a socialite."

Perry snorted. "You may look like one but you'll _never_ act like one. You're not that good of an actress."

I was going to laugh, but my mother's voice at my elbow cut me off. "Lois, this is Mr. Jay W. Pollard, of Pollard & Sons Oil. Jay, this is my daughter Lois Lane, and her editor, Mr. Perry White of _The Daily Planet_?"

Mr. Pollard, a tall, razor-thin man whose suit didn't fit him nearly as well as Perry's did, held out his hand to me. I took it and barely suppressed a shudder; his skin was like ice.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Lane, Mr. White."

Thank God, Perry spoke before I had to. "Congratulations on your new business acquisition, sir. Read about it in the _Wall Street Journal _just the other day. That gives you some promising new territories, doesn't it?"

Mr. Pollard made some answer but my attention was already lost; keeping my eyes on his face to spare myself Mother's scolding glares, my mind drifted back to the problem of Will MacFarlane, AKA Joe Wilder. It was the end of July, and I hadn't had any substantial leads since I found out Will—thank goodness he was still using that name—was a volunteer fireman in Juneau last year, from February to April.

The fireman I talked to identified Will in my lone photo and gave me another one of a clean-shaven, younger Will with the rest of the fire crew. The photo was taken soon after Will joined the crew, he explained. When the city cut emergency staff in April, Will moved on.

"He said he was on a fishing boat or something before he came to Juneau," the fireman said before a siren cut us off and I had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over by a fire truck.

But I hadn't been able to trace Will MacFarlane back to a fishing crew. There were hundreds, thousands of fishing boats venturing out from the coast of Alaska every day. My worst fear, that he'd changed his name again, may have materialized and I was at a loss.

" . . . oil rig explosion off the coast of Alaska." Mr. Pollard was still talking to Perry, but my ears only perked up at the word "explosion." I blinked, glanced around; Perry frowned with obvious interest, and my mom looked like this was the most fascinating subject she'd heard in years. I cleared my throat, tried to focus on the conversation again.

"I heard that was one of the worst offshore accidents in the history of the oil business," Perry said.

"It was," Mr. Pollard agreeing, sipping from his martini glass. "It would've been worse, too, I'm told, if we hadn't had a bit of a phenomenon. Not sure if I believe the story, but you know . . ."

"Wait, what happened?" I asked. Any "phenomenal" stories caught my ear these days.

Mom shot me a scolding glare; Mr. Pollard didn't seem to take much offense. "The men who were picked up off the rig by the Coast Guard swear they were rescued by a man who the fire couldn't touch. One of the men I talked to described him as a 'burning angel.' I think they were probably hallucinating from the fumes . . ."

"Where did this happen?" I blurted out. "Where on the coast of Alaska?"

This time Mr. Pollard hesitated, looked at me hard, while Perry and Mom stared at me with varying degrees of surprise and horror. My face grew hot and I lowered my voice to a more respectable level.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pollard . . . I'm doing a—a research project on paranormal stories." I felt my cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red and I dared not look at Perry. "When exactly did this happen?"

"January of last year," Mr. Pollard said, and shot a glance at my mother.

_January . . . Will was a fireman in February . . . _

"And where did it happen?" I asked. Before Mr. Pollard could answer, Mom had me by the elbow.

"Mr. Pollard, I hate to break this up, but I believe I just saw Miss Jackson come in and I'd like to introduce her to Lois before she gets caught up at the refreshment table. Excuse us!"

Mr. Pollard nodded; I glanced at Perry and saw him watching me with narrowed eyes. _Darn __it. _I'd be in hot water tomorrow morning.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mom hissed as soon as she got me into a quiet corner.

"I'm asking him honest questions," I hissed back.

"With the tone of a Gestapo agent, yes indeed you are! If you'd been listening you would've already known he was talking about Alaska and that this incident happened more than a year ago, but no, you come in five minutes late and make him repeat half the details for your own benefit.'

I clamped my lips together, knowing she was at least partly right and yet feeling the sting of her contempt. She smoothed the front of her form-fitting gown and fluffed the back of her hair.

"Now," she said, "you can just snap out of this interrogation mode and conduct yourself with more grace for the rest of the evening. If that means you keep your mouth shut, so be it. You obviously can't have an intelligent conversation without showing off or dragging your work into it."

"You know, maybe I don't belong here," I whispered. "Maybe I should just leave."

"No," Mother said quickly. "You leave, and it'll be a worse embarrassment."

"Then _you _deal with it!" I snapped, and with that I brushed past her so fast, she wobbled in her high heels. Some of the other guests paused, glanced in my direction, but I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Lois Joanne!" my mother called sharply. I ignored her. I grabbed my purse where I'd set it in a corner beside her own, and stormed out of the building.

* * *

I was terrified Perry would call me into his office the next morning and confront me about my "paranormal research," but he never did. I sat in my cubicle on pins and needles all day and worked on my latest assignment—working conditions among Hispanic immigrants in Metropolis—with more-than-usual diligence. Only when I got back to my flat that evening did I allow myself to relax and start researching this oil rig disaster off the coast of Alaska.

The lead was promising, and the information easy to find on the Internet. I got the names of several witnesses—rig workers and Coast Guards alike—simply from a few news articles, and promptly booked a weekend flight to the Kodiak Archipelago.

The story would've been thrilling enough even if I didn't have a specific interest in it. One of the survivors, a man who still carried the heavy scars of severe burns on his face, told me he and several friends had been cornered in a room, simply waiting for the fire to reach them. There was no way out and they huddled together, making their peace with God.

"And then without warning, that door just burst wide-open!" the man said, swinging his arm as if to convey the speed of the opening door. "This man walked in, and I swear, ma'am, the flames were licking at his body and had pretty much burned every stitch of clothing off of him, but the fire didn't seem to hurt him. He'd found a path out of the inside of the rig for us, and he even half-carried one of our guys who'd had his leg burned so bad he could hardly walk."

The Coast Guards were equally informative. "Last we saw of him, he was holding back a steel frame that would've otherwise crushed our helicopter."

"And then what happened?" I demanded.

The Guards glanced at each other; one of them finally answered in a lower voice. "The frame collapsed . . . guess even he couldn't hold it up forever. We weren't five minutes from the rig before it blew up completely."

I showed the pictures of Joe Wilder and Will MacFarlane to the survivors and to the Coast Guards. The Guards hadn't seen the man long enough to recognize him, but the survivors had. They all invariably pointed to the bearded Joe Wilder.

"If you could meet this man again, what would you say to him?" I asked the man with the burned face.

He looked at me for a moment. One eye was blind and cloudy; the other, however, looked at me with such feeling, I felt my throat tighten.

"Ma'am, I have five kids at home, and my wife was pregnant with the youngest when this happened. I'd tell him 'thank you.' Not sure what else I _could_ say."

When I learned from the Coast Guards that another boat—a fishing boat—had raced to the scene in an attempt to help with the rescue, I immediately contacted the captain. _Will MacFarlane . . . have I finally found your fishing boat? _

When I talked to the captain, however—a gruff, weather-beaten man who obviously thought little of lady reporters—I found out there wasn't a Will MacFarlane on his crew at the time. My disappointment was mounting when the captain, while tying the _Debbie Sue _to the pier, suddenly growled:

"During the rescue, one of my men jumped overboard and tried to grab hold of a worker who was swimming away from the rig. He managed to get the fellow onto our boat and went out to see if he could find anymore. He never came back, though. Reckon he got caught in that flaming mess when the whole rig came crashing down."

"And what was his name?" I asked, trying not to sound terribly interested.

The captain thought a moment, slung a coil of rope onto the deck of his boat. "Luke Marshall. We called him 'Greenhorn,' seeing as how he'd only been with my crew a few weeks."

I held my breath and reached into my satchel, pulled out the two photos. "Could you identify the man in these photos as Luke Marshall?"

The captain gave the photos a glance, then did a double-take. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the photos for a moment; then, as if realizing he was showing too much interest, he drew back.

"Yep. That's Luke."

* * *

The evening after I got back from Alaska, I tacked my new evidence onto my bulletin board. The two photos of my mystery man were now surrounded by the testimonies I'd typed up over the past month and a half, along with a map. I'd marked the trail from Ellesmere Island, Baker Lake, Yellowknife, Juneau, Kodiak.

The captain of the _Debbie Sue _had also told me that Luke said he was originally from Seattle. At this point I knew my friend's information was always changing—but Mr. Eubanks _had _said Joe Wilder claimed to be from that very city. I dragged the point of my Sharpie from Kodiak to Seattle and stuck my tongue out, playfully, at the two photos.

"You think you're so clever, changing your name like that," I said, shaking my finger at the photos. "I'm going to find you, Joe-Will-Luke, or I'm at least going to find out where you came from."

I had jumped off the step-stool and slipped my Sharpie behind my ear when I heard a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock, saw it was well after nine o'clock; startled, I went to the door and looked through the peephole.

Perry White stood in the hallway.

I threw the door open. He stood there with his briefcase, looking like he'd spent the whole weekend in his office; his chin was covered in rough stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. And yet those bloodshot eyes were levelled at me like he was trying to decide how to scold me.

I forced the brightest, cheeriest smile I could manage. "Perry! I didn't expect to see you here tonight! What's up?"

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked, his voice very low and measured.

"Sure," I said, swallowing down my panic; I didn't want him to see that bulletin board, but if I didn't invite him in, it might make him more suspicious.

As soon as he walked into my living room his eyes went to the bulletin board, almost as if he already knew it was there. I closed the door behind him and stood there, waiting for his verdict.

"I know what you're doing, Lane," he said.

My voice came out much stronger and firmer than I would've expected. "Perry, this is my personal investigation. I'm not using the _Planet_'s time or resources, it's all coming out of my own pocket, and I won't be putting anything about it on your desk. I swear."

_Because it's all going to Glen Woodburn's desk_, my conscience snapped. I dug my nails into the palm of my hand in an attempt to silence that nagging little voice.

Perry's frown deepened. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want to know who that man is. I want to thank him and I want to tell his story."

"Did it ever occur to you that he might not want his story told? There's got to be a reason why his identity was completely falsified. People like that don't _want _to be found, Lois!"

"Why did you come here anyway?" I snapped. "And how did you find out what I've been up to?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Flights into Canada every weekend in June? A trip back from Alaska this morning? A mutual friend of ours by the name of Lombard saw you at the airport this morning on his way back from Denver to report on a ball game. I did a little research of my own and found out all about your flights."

I looked away, embarrassed and infuriated. _Steve Lombard, you are worse than the NSA. _

"It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, Lane, especially since you've been back to Ellesmere and spending time in the Canadian interior." Perry glanced at the bulletin board. "So that's your alien man?"

I bristled again. "You didn't answer my first question. Why did you come?"

Perry sighed and looked back at me. His eyes were stern, and I felt like a child who's about to receive a sharp chastisement.

"I can't stop you from this," he said, pointing at the bulletin board. "But I don't want to see the name of General Sam Lane dragged through the mud because his daughter hopped on the conspiracy theory bandwagon. He might not have been respected by his own wife but he was admired by most of the people in this country."

I blinked, felt the stiffness of my body cracking loose. Perry stepped closer and patted my shoulder.

"Just remember that, okay? Don't forget people still see him when they see his daughter."

I lowered my eyes and turned my head away, not wanting him to see any hint of the conflict I felt. Perry patted my shoulder again and walked out, and as soon as I heard the door click shut behind him I sank onto my couch and buried my face in my hands.

After a long moment I drew a deep breath and lifted my head. I kept my eyes well away from the bulletin board and instead fixed them on the coffee table in front of me. If Perry was right, then my reputation was very much at stake. I was General Samuel Lane's daughter. Everyone knew I was headstrong, hard-working, adventurous, just like him. The man who'd presented my Pulitzer to me on a brightly-lit stage even described me as my father's daughter.

If Perry was right, then if I opened myself to ridicule, I also risked my dad's reputation.

I shut my eyes, drew another long breath. I could see myself sitting in the tire swing in our backyard in Texas . . . seven years old, scrawny, and tall for my age. My dad sat in a lawn chair nearby in his uniform, wrinkled after a day's work at the fort; his square, handsome face was lined with anxiety, but his eyes were soft as he watched me and talked with me about anything and everything.

"Don't take anything in this life for granted, Little Lo," he murmured, gazing at the sky with that dreamy look he sometimes had when something weighed on his mind. "No matter what anyone says, no matter what happens, you live in gratitude. It's the man—or woman—who lives his or her life complaining about anything and everything that gets eaten up with bitterness."

I'd pushed against the ground with my foot, making the swing rock slightly. "Is that what's wrong with Mom?"

I was only seven years old, yet I'd heard the word "divorce" at school, knew what it meant, and nursed a vague fear that it would happen to my family one day. Dad turned his eyes from the sky to me, and I saw in that moment the full depth of his regret and sadness.

"Yes, Lois," he whispered. "That's what's wrong with you mother. Don't let it happen to you, baby girl. You live in humility and gratitude, and you live life to the hilt. Don't let anyone hold you back, all right?"

I had smiled, nodded until my pigtails bobbed. "All right."

Back in the flat, the memory over, I opened my eyes. _Humility, gratitude . . . live life to the hilt. _I wasn't the humblest person on the planet, that was for sure; my mouth twisted in a sardonic smile at the very thought. But gratitude was one reason for this frustrating yet rewarding search . . . and if pursuing the biggest story of the 21st century wasn't living life to the hilt, I didn't know what was.

I stood up and popped my elbows back, stretching; kicking off my shoes, I walked over to my laptop. If I could prove that Joe Wilder, Will MacFarlane, and Luke Marshall were one and the same, and if I could prove that this man was indeed from another world, that he and the Ellesmere Island mystery were intimately connected, and if I could tell his remarkable story . . . then my name would go untarnished.

Dad would have no reason to be ashamed of me.


	7. Smallville

"That guy worked for me all right," said Jacob Harrison, owner of an enormous rock quarry in Boulder, Colorado. We were in his office; Harrison was behind his desk while I sat on the edge of a metal chair, trying not to show how miserable I was in this dry August heat. A lone fan whirred nearby, blowing cool air on me every thirty seconds or so, not nearly long enough to dry the sweat on my face and neck.

"No doubt about it," Harrison said, returning to my two precious photos to me. "But his name wasn't Luke Marshall anymore'n mine's George Washington."

I sat up a little straighter. "Really?"

"Gosh no," Harrison said with a chuckle. "Reckon I remember him pretty darn well, too. He worked for me three straight years. The name was Clark Kent."

_Oh no, not another pseudonym. _I pulled my damp hair away from my neck, trying hard not to show my dread. Harrison leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles on top of his desk.

"He was a good kid. See, the reason he came to work for me was 'cause a friend of mine, Jim Ross—we went to high school together, see—he called and asked if I was needing another man. I said, 'Jim, I'm always looking for more hands, you know that.' So Jim says, 'Well, there's this friend of my boy Pete's and he's looking for an opportunity outside our little one-horse town.' Jim, he lived in Kansas . . . goshdarn it, if I can't remember the name of that town . . . it'll come to me, Miss Lane, just hang on a minute . . ."

My irritation went down the metaphorical toilet the instant Harrison said "Kansas." I ducked my head and scribbled fast and furious in my notebook, starting a fresh new page and beginning with the new name at the top.

_Okay, Clark Kent. I won't hold it against you for giving me one more name to keep up with if I'm about to find out where you grew up. _

"So thirteen years ago this young fellow walks into my office," Harrison went on. "Clean-cut, well-spoken boy, more respectful to me than my own son. He was a big kid, too, and strong as an ox. Many's the time I saw him lift a stone like it didn't weigh more'n a baby. And like I said, he worked for me for three years, and in all that time he never gave me a bit of trouble."

I glanced up, tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. "So why didn't he stay?"

Harrison sighed, shrugged. "He came into this here office one day and told me it was time for him to move on. Thanked me for giving him a chance to get away from his town. Apparently his old man had died a couple of years before he came to me and it was hard on him, so the distance probably helped him get over it somewhat. Anyway, he told me he wanted to see more of the US of A and he'd be heading out of Boulder pretty soon. I sent him off with my best wishes and more respect than I've ever had for a twenty-three-year-old man."

I smiled. The testimony was certainly consistent with the character I'd gotten to know so well. Everyone I'd talked to seemed to like the gentle-hearted mystery man, though none of them had claimed to understand his quiet, secretive ways.

"Have you seen him since?" I asked.

"Nope. Heard from Pete Ross over the holidays, and he said Kent had been home a couple of times over the past ten years to visit his mama, but he's not been back here." Without warning Harrison's big feet crashed down on the floor and I jumped in my seat. "Smallville! That was the name of the dang town—I told you I'd remember it!"

I laughed a little shakily. "Great. Thank you so much, Mr. Harrison, I really appreciate it."

"So what is it you're doing again? You met him a couple months ago and . . . ?"

"Let's just say I owe him one," I said, smiling as I slipped my notebook into my satchel. "But after he did me a favor I wasn't able to find him again. It's a long story . . . but hopefully I'll be able to find him or at least talk to someone who knows where I can find him."

"Well, I wish you luck," Harrison said, and he rose to shake my hand. "If you see him, tell him he's always got a place with Jacob Harrison."

* * *

There was no going straight to Smallville. I had an interview for my latest assignment scheduled for the next day and had to be back in Metropolis. It had been three weeks since Perry confronted me in my flat and so far he'd never asked me if I'd dropped my pursuit of my mystery man. I preferred to keep it that way, so I kept all my appointments and met every deadline in the hopes that he'd think I was completely focused on my job.

On Friday morning, while typing up the draft of an article for Monday's issue of _The Daily Planet_, I got a text. Still typing, I glanced at my phone. My fingers froze over my keyboard.

_"The Truth about Ellesmere Island" will be in the weekend edition of _The Spectator_. Better make yourself scarce if you don't want White to snap your head off. Looking forward to your follow-up piece on the Mystery Man. GW._

_ Woodburn._

I hastily slammed my phone into my skirt pocket and took a deep breath. Tomorrow morning the world would know what I saw on Ellesmere, and hopefully Joe-Will-Luke-Clark would at least know I hadn't forgotten him.

Maybe—and this was a bit of a wild hope—he'd seek _me_ out.

I avoided Perry for the rest of the day, certain my guilty conscience would show all over my face. The next morning I was too nervous to even glance at the _Spectator_'s website. I instead went to airport and quietly caught my plane, and by the afternoon I was in Topeka. I hopped into

my rental car and drove two hours from the capital, reaching Smallville just as school let out.

The speed limit was low even when I got out of the school zone, forcing me to drive leisurely down Main Street and take in the sights. It was like stepping into the 1950's. Old brick store fronts, elderly men sitting on benches in front of the barber shop, American flags snapping on the light poles. A little further into the town, things started looking more modern. I saw a Wal-Mart and a Sears, a McDonalds, an IHOP. I turned into the parking lot of the pancake house.

A quick, simple Google search had told me that Pete Ross, the young man Mr. Harrison had mentioned as a friend of Clark Kent's, managed the IHOP in Smallville. An unusual result on the next Google page had turned up an archived piece from the local newspaper about a curious incident twenty-one years ago involving a schoolbus.

I squared my shoulders and walked inside. At this hour, there were few customers; employees wiped down tables and got things ready for an evening onslaught. It was easy to pick out the manager, a short, somewhat heavy, red-headed man in his early thirties, impeccably dressed in a button-down and perfectly ironed slacks.

"Mr. Ross?" I called, approaching and making sure to smile in a relaxed, friendly fashion.

"Yes, ma'am, how can I help you?"

_Careful, Lane, easy. _"I was wondering if I could take to you about an incident that happened when you were younger . . . a schoolbus that crashed and went over a bridge into the river?"

He immediately looked taken aback. "How—how'd you hear about that?"

I suddenly decided not to tell him I was with a newspaper. He seemed wary enough as it was. "Back in May my life was saved by a young man who, I have reason to believe, lived in this town and has a solid reputation for rescuing people in need. I was hoping to find Clark Kent here and thank him for helping me . . . and maybe get a chance to talk to him about his life."

Pete Ross looked away and started arranging chairs around a small square table. "Clark Kent hasn't been in town for four years. I don't think even his mother knows where he is right now."

"Did Clark Kent save a schoolbus twenty-one years ago, Mr. Ross?"

He hesitated, letting out a long breath through his nose. His eyes shifted behind his glasses as if searching for unfriendly eavesdroppers.

"We were both twelve, heading home from school. The driver lost control and the bus went over the bridge railing into the water." He rubbed the back of his neck with another cautious glance at the door. "Somehow Clark managed to get out and push the bus back onto the bank."

"Was he a muscular boy?" I asked.

"No," he replied quickly. "No one knew he was that strong. I actually didn't see it happen. I got washed out when the bus came back to the surface. Clark went back underwater and saved me before I could drown."

I nodded slowly, picturing the unassuming boy carrying the weight of that bus and his school mates on his shoulders. "I'm sure the town was thankful. It would've been a tragedy if . . ."

"No, everyone was scared to death. Even my mother is still convinced Clark's got some kind of supernatural power. And since he _was_ adopted, that just fed the rumors that he was . . . different."

_Or an alien_, I thought. "Why do _you_ think he could do what he did?"

A flash of spirit gleamed for a second in Mr. Ross' languid eyes. "It doesn't really matter to me why he could do it. He saved my life. That's all that matters and that's all that _should've_ mattered to the old gossips who made him feel like a freak in his own hometown."

I frowned. "Is that why he left Smallville?"

Again he hesitated. I sensed him pulling back from this conversation, as if he was now afraid of saying too much. Silently, I willed him to give me just a little more information, just one more thing to fill out this complex portrait of my mystery man . . .

"After his dad got killed, Clark was never the same. He never was one to talk much, but . . . I think he stopped smiling altogether." Pete Ross shrugged, turned towards the cash register. "He needed to get away ot figure out what to do with his life. Here in Smallville, with everybody wary of him, it probably wasn't easy for him to think very optimistically about his future."

I opened my mouth to say something else, but he cut me off. "That's all I can tell you, ma'am. Clark didn't like to talk about himself and I don't know that he'd like me telling a stranger this much about him, either."

"That's all right," I said quietly, extending my hand. "You've been very helpful."

He seemed surprised but thankful that I didn't press him, and he shook my hand politely. I left the restaurant more sober than I'd been after any other interview in this whole convoluted case. Once in my car, I cranked up the air conditioner and sat back, pulled out my notebook, and went to the GPS app on my phone.

Carefully, I punched in the address I'd found thanks to a simple Yellow Pages search: the home of Martha Kent.

* * *

The farmhouse looked like it had seen better days. The paint was peeling off the walls in some places and when I set my foot on the porch steps, they creaked ominously under my weight. A dog barked inside and a woman approached the screen door.

She was tall and thin, her dark greying hair cut just below her shoulders. Twenty years ago she might've been beautiful and there was still something attractive about her stern, weathered face, but she didn't open the screen door and simply sized me up from where she stood with keen grey eyes. I wiped my sweaty palm on the side of my jeans and cleared my throat.

"Mrs. Kent?"

She nodded with a slightly questioning look. I had a feeling there'd be no hiding from her my whole story or my identity. Better to be honest and forthright. Hopefully she'd appreciate both qualities.

"I'm Lois Lane and I'm with _The Daily Plan_—"

The dog, a border collie, started barking at me again, making me jump.

"Quiet!" the woman snapped at the dog. I swallowed. That voice was not one to be defied, and I hoped she didn't always talk so sharply. She looked at me again with an attempt at polite patience.

"I'm with _The Daily Planet_, and I'd like to talk to you about your son," I said.

Immediately Martha Kent stiffened, and I held my breath. She drew herself up to her full height and her eyes went cold, and she set her hands on her hips.

"What about him?" she asked in a much quieter, but icy tone.

"I . . . I met him—"

"Where?"

"Ellesmere Island. Close to the North Pole."

Whether or not she realized it, a look of relief swept into Martha Kent's eyes. Then it was gone and she was back to skewering me with her suspicious gaze.

"And what makes you think I'd want to talk to you? What makes you think there's anything to tell you anyway?"

I braced myself. "We both know there's plenty to tell. I've tracked your son from the North Pole all the way to Smallville. I know he's extraordinary. To some he's been a guardian angel and to others he's a ghost who's never quite fit in with ordinary society. And I know he's spent a lifetime covering his tracks. I've spent the past two months uncovering them and wondering why a man like him wouldn't want his story or his identity known."

"I guess it never occurred to you to respect his wishes, then," Martha Kent hissed. "You never once thought that he had good reasons for hiding himself, did you? You reporters are all the same . . . always looking for the next big story with no thought for the people whose lives you might be wrecking!"

She turned on her heel and marched away. I stood there with my mouth open, then grabbed the handle of the screen door and jerked it open.

"Mrs. Kent, your son saved _my _life!"

She stopped, her back to me, her hands still on her hips. Her head tilted back as if she was staring at the ceiling; then she slowly turned back towards me, her face set.

"He saved my life," I said again, quieter this time. "I was bleeding to death and he burned my wound closed, with his eyes. I know what he can do. I know he's not from this world. You can't deny that, Mrs. Kent."

She turned deathly white. Her lips parted and for a moment I thought she might cry.

"Get out," she whispered. "Just get out."

She grabbed hold of the back door and slammed it in my face. The lock groaned and I heard her footsteps as she hurried away. I let the screen door close and ran down the porch steps to my car, my face burning and my blood thundering in my ears.

* * *

Driving fast down the narrow country roads through the cornfields, I blinked away tears of anger and disappointment. Martha Kent's words rang in my ears and made me cringe.

_ "You reporters are all the same . . . always looking for the next big story with no thought for the people whose lives you might be wrecking!"_

She was right. It had never occurred to me that finding out my mystery man's story might be disastrous for him. He didn't want anyone to know he was different, that he had godlike powers. But _why_? Why was he so afraid to reveal himself?

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, furious at myself for the big fat tear that went down my cheek and dripped onto my arm. I sniffed loudly. _I am not going to cry over this, I'm not!—_and a choked sob promptly burst out of my mouth.

I drove off onto the shoulder, not trusting my blurred vision, and parked; then I folded my arms on the steering wheel and cried my eyes out.

All that hard work. All the time and effort and all the thought that went into researching this guy. Where could I go with it now? If I was really as heartless as Martha Kent believed, I'd write my story and tell the whole world that this Kansas nobody, this Clark Kent, might be an alien being. It'd be the biggest story of the century and I'd be forever known as the one who broke it.

But if doing so would ruin him . . . if he did have legitimate reasons for hiding himself . . . if that choice was consistent with the noble character I'd come to admire so much . . . could I really do such a thing in good conscience?

I lifted my head and wiped my eyes and nose with the back of my hand. Twilight had fallen and the whole prairie was bathed in soft golden light. My eye caught, just up the road, a white-painted church that looked like it had been there a hundred years. Strangely curious about something so ordinary—because maybe I _wanted_ something ordinary for a change—I dried my eyes again and drove into the parking lot.

Sure enough, a plaque informed me the church had been there since 1901. Intrigued by the history, I peeked through a window and saw old-fashioned pews, an old piano with yellowed ivory keys, beautiful stained glass. The doors were locked, so I strolled aimlessly towards the little cemetery behind the church, drinking in the peace and quiet.

Dad had loved old cemeteries. When we lived in Texas there was a Confederate cemetery not far from our house; he had a great time looking at the dates on the tombstones, figuring out how old each young Confederate soldier was when he died. I found myself doing the same thing now, reading the epitaphs with subdued curiosity. My tired brain felt more peaceful here than it had in months . . . maybe years.

I froze, however, at the sight of a newer tombstone. Engraved upon it was the name _Jonathan Kent_. I bent closer, read the dates.

_Died in 1997. That was . . . sixteen years ago. I wonder if . . ._

A sudden wind stirred the trees around the cemetery and I glanced around hurriedly to see if a storm was coming up. The sky was still cloudless, but before my uneasiness had a chance to fade I heard a footstep behind me. I turned and felt my heart jump into my throat.

The man standing behind me in faded blue jeans wore a white t-shirt beneath a dingy button-down, giving him a rather careless appearance. But I noticed that the clothes were too big and poorly concealed a very tall, very muscular frame; my eyes landed next on the baseball cap slammed hard over a head full of thick, nearly-black curls.

And underneath the bill of the cap a pair of deep blue eyes watched me from out of the very face I'd studied for the past two months.

_My mystery man._


	8. This Is Clark Kent

For a few seconds, I couldn't say anything. I just stared at Clark Kent open-mouthed. He looked back at me with his head slightly cocked to one side, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. I swallowed, cleared my throat.

"I figured if I turned over enough stones, I'd eventually find you. I only hoped you'd find me, too."

He said nothing. I slowly approached him, praying I wouldn't make the same mistake with him that I'd made with his mother. If he ran away from me I'd never forgive myself.

"Once I knew what to look for, I started seeing a pattern," I began, keeping my voice soft and, hopefully, humble. "There'd be some kind of disaster or some injustice . . . and a Good Samaritan would show up, doing and daring things no human could possibly do."

Clark Kent dropped his gaze. I took a deep breath and quickened my pace towards him.

"Where are you from? Why are you here? Let me tell your story."

He looked up so quickly I froze in my tracks, wanting to kick myself for my foolishness.

"What if I don't want my story told?" he asked in a quiet, measured tone.

"It's going to get out eventually. Someone's going to photograph you during one of your missions of mercy . . . or figure out where you live."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Then I'll just disappear again."

I narrowed my eyes. "The only way you could disappear for good is for you to stop helping people altogether, and I sense that's not an option for you."

Clark Kent stared at me thoughtfully, and even though there was something about him that made me want to blush and look away, I forced myself to meet his gaze.

"You're right," he finally said. "It's not an option. I can't _help _helping people."

"Then why hide yourself?" I prodded. "You could do so much more good if—"

"No, you don't understand." He drew a deep breath and his eyes hardened a little, as if he was bracing himself for this conversation. "People say they like science fiction, but who _really _wants to believe they might be entertaining aliens? Especially if that alien looks exactly like you and you can't tell the difference until he slips up and you realize he could break you like a toothpick if he wanted to."

I stared at him, surprised. Even on Ellesmere I'd never heard him say that much at one time and certainly not with such passion.

"My parents found me in a field, as a baby," he went on, talking now like it was a relief to finally say all this out loud. "When they realized I had these powers they helped me and taught me to control them. My father believed that if the world found out who I really was, it would reject me out of fear. He always told me I was sent here for a reason and I had to find out what that reason was, but it wasn't going to do me any good if the government declared me a threat to national security or if people shunned me because they knew I was a—a _freak_."

He threw out the ugly word like it hurt him. I winced, sensing the painful effects of the rejection Pete Ross had hinted at. Despite his parents' caution, Clark Kent still must've felt the sting of being the weird kid.

"We lived like that until I was seventeen. We were stuck in a traffic jam on the highway one day when a tornado hit." He drew a shuddering breath and his hands clenched. "My father was saving people that day, not me. He was getting people out of the cars, telling them where to go for safety. When he went back to get our dog out of our car—"

He stopped, and I watched in horror as he struggled visibly for control over his emotions. His next words came out in a choked, groaning voice that made my own throat tighten.

"_I saw him._ I could've run to him and snatched him away from that tornado and gotten him to safety. But he just stood there and raised his hand like he was telling me to stay right where I was. 'Don't leave your mom, conceal it, it's not your time.' " He swallowed, blinked hard. "And then they found his body in a flattened wheat field a few hours later."

I looked down, overwhelmed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him fold his arms tightly over his chest—a defensive posture, yes, but not against me. This was painful to tell and he was trying to control the ache.

"I let him die because I trusted him, because he was so convinced that the world wasn't ready. And I've carried the guilt of that day for sixteen years." He paused. "What do _you_ think, Miss Lane?"

I jerked my head up, startled. "What do I think about what?"

"Do you think the world is ready to know the truth?"

I stared at him incredulously. "Why are you asking _me?_"

He hesitated. "I don't know. I guess because you're the only person who's really seemed to care."

"No, no, I'm not," I whispered, waving my hands in protest. "I'm not the only one who cares, I can promise you that. I don't know how many people I've met who've asked me to thank you for everything you ever did for them. They had nothing but good things to say about you."

"But is the _world_ ready?" he pleaded.

I shook my head. "I don't know. But I think it _will_ be, and you'll be just as ready for it when that day comes."

Such a look of surprise and gratitude swept into his lonely eyes, I reached out and touched his arm before I could stop myself. He flinched, but didn't draw away. I wondered if I was the first person except his parents who had ever touched him without being really afraid of him.

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life," I whispered. "You didn't have to do it."

He offered me a small, soft smile. "If you think I could leave you to die, then all your research about me didn't do you one bit of good."

I smiled back. "How did you know I was tracking you?"

He sighed, his smile broadening a little. "That ship? Let's just say it had some advanced WiFi technology—or something like it. I was curious about you after our . . . _encounter_, so I did a little reading-up on Lois Lane in my spare time. And then when I stopped by Yellowknife on my way back south to say hello to some old friends, I heard you'd been by the bar to talk to Chrissy."

"Oh," I murmured.

"And then," he said, his brow furrowing beneath the bill of his cap, "I saw something on the Internet this morning about an article you wrote for some tabloid paper, the _Spectator_?"

I blushed. "My editor wouldn't publish my story, so I took it somewhere else. I didn't want it to go untold and I was hoping you'd read it."

He lifted one expressive eyebrow. "Well, I did—but not on the _Spectator_'s actual website. It's all over the Internet, Miss Lane. I'm afraid you're going to be in hot water when you get back to _The Daily Planet_."

"That's okay. What I hoped would happen _did_. You sought me out and that's all that matters."

He unfolded his arms, forcing me to drop my hand back to my side. "I sought you out because I was afraid you'd write more. You know everything about me and I'm not underestimating you: you could probably find out more if you set your mind to it."

He didn't say anything else; he didn't have to. His unsaid plea was enough. I swallowed down whatever bit of pride and arrogance was left in me after hearing his story and shook my head.

"I—I'm not going to write anymore, Mr. Kent."

He released a sigh of relief and gave his head one slow, regal nod. "Thank you, Miss Lane."

I extended my hand to him; he took it and clasped it gently, but firmly. A little shiver ran up and down my spine at his touch. The thought of never seeing him or talking to him again made me strangely depressed. Still . . . better to keep my promise and let him live in peace.

We parted quietly and I walked back to my car. I looked over my shoulder once and saw him standing by his father's tombstone. As I watched, he got down on one knee, his arm across his leg. I looked away, not wanting to intrude anymore than I already had upon his privacy or the raw grief that still tormented him, and quickly drove away.

* * *

Clark was right. As soon as I got on the Internet at the airport I saw my article had made a bigger splash than even I had expected. Lois Lane, Pulitzer-winning investigative journalist, had given a sensational piece on her Ellesmere Island adventure to the tabloid _Spectator_, breaching her contract with _The Daily Planet _and confirming escalating rumors about an extraterrestrial ship on a United States military base.

Part of me was indifferent to the implications of all this. I had talked to my mystery man; not only that, but _he _sought me out. It was the investigative journalist's version of a fairytale.

On the other hand, it was doubtful I'd still have a job at _The Daily Planet _by Monday evening.

I let myself into my apartment late Saturday evening and turned on the lights. My eyes landed at once on my bulletin board. All the notes were still there, arranged around the two photos . . . all the evidence I'd gathered of Clark Kent's presence from Smallville to Ellesmere Island. There

was enough material there for the article I wouldn't write now for all the tea in China.

_You were insane to promise him you'd never write it_, a nasty voice taunted me in my head. _You'll be remembered for this article about Ellesmere but you'd be immortal in the journalistic world if you told everyone exactly who your mystery man is._

I gritted my teeth, enraged that some selfish little corner of my consciousness would suggest such a thing. Clenching my hands, I marched up to the bulletin board and started pulling out thumbtacks. The notes fluttered to the couch beneath the board until only the photos remained. I gathered the notes up in a wastebasket with wrathful haste, plugged in my paper shredder, and fed the notes into it without even a hint of remorse.

"I will not do that to him," I hissed out loud. "I don't care if Perry White bites my head off, I don't care if Glen Woodburn curses me up one side and down the other for not giving him a second article—I will _not _betray that man."

The last incriminating note destroyed, I whirled, tossed my hair out of my face, and removed the photos. I looked hard at them both, glanced at the shredder, and shuddered.

_No, no, no. I can't do that. I'll never forget him, and when I'm old and grey they'll be my only keepsakes of the biggest adventure I've ever had._

I pressed the photos against my chest and marched into my bedroom. I jerked one of my dresser drawers open and slipped the photos under a stack of pajamas, then kicked the drawer shut and sat down heavily on my bed.

"And that's the end of _that_," I whispered.

* * *

"You'd better watch out, Lois!" Steve Lombard said in a sing-song voice as I walked into the bull-pen. "Perry is _out of his mind_ and can't _wait _to bite your head off."

"Shut up, Lombard," I hissed, walking past him. I dropped my laptop into my cubicle and walked down the center aisle of the bull-pen towards Perry's office, ignoring the curious, half-scared looks given to me by Jenny and my other co-workers. Everyone in the front lobby had gaped at me; even the janitor in the elevator gave me a sympathetic shake of his head when he saw me.

I took a deep bracing breath before I opened the door without knocking. Perry sat at his desk. As soon as he saw me his grey eyes flashed angrily and he stabbed his index finger at me.

"I told you not to run with this!" he barked as I shut the door behind me. "And what did you do? You let Woodburn shotgun it all over the Internet. It's in the checkout racks in every supermarket, every newspaper stand—and now the publishers want to sue you! I suppose you're gonna send Woodburn all the information you'd gathered on your 'mystery man' next?"

"No," I said, folding my arms over my chest. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm dropping _that_."

Perry sat back hard in his chair. "Wait, just like that?"

"Yep," I said, almost in a whisper.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "What happened to your leads?"

"They didn't pan out. The story's smoke."

"Or his real story ended up not being as sensational as you hoped it would be," Perry said without any attempt to hide his scorn.

I felt myself go red and drummed my fingers on my arm. I couldn't have been the only one in the room remembering his admonition to me in my apartment: "I don't want to see the name of General Sam Lane dragged through the mud because his daughter hopped on the conspiracy theory bandwagon."

_This is what my father would want me to do, Perry. You have to trust me, please._

I don't know why I didn't say that out loud. Maybe I didn't have the emotional fortitude to bring up my dad. Maybe I was too scared that, if I spoke, I might inadvertently say too much about Clark Kent. Whatever it was, I kept my mouth shut and waited for Perry to say "You're fired."

"Two weeks leave without pay," he snapped. "That's your penance. And if you do something like this again, you're _done_. Understand me, Lane?"

I held my breath to keep back a gasp of relief. "Fine."

Perry's eyes widened and he sat straight up. "Make it three weeks, then, since you were so quick to agree!"

"Perry!" I cried, frustrated, but before I could go on he raised his hand.

"Stop. You be quiet, and let me talk." He leaned back in his seat again and twirled his pencil in his fingers, still fixing me with his sharp eyes. "I believe you saw something on Ellesmere, Lois."

My eyes widened.

"I'm not buying for a second that your leads went cold, either. But whatever your reasons are for dropping it . . . I think you're doing the right thing."

"Why?" I demanded angrily. "Because you think my dad's honor is going down the toilet? Because you think I'm a madwoman and I'd be better off in the Arkham Asylum?"

"Can you imagine what people would do if they knew someone like your mystery man was really out there?" he asked calmly. "If they knew exactly who he was?"

I swallowed so hard I'm sure he heard it. "I—I know. He all but begged me not to tell. I can't tell, I can't . . . he's too good a man, he'd put us all to shame . . ."

I broke off, scared again that if I went on I'd either cry or say too much. Perry studied me for another long moment, then stuck his pencil behind his ear and sat forward, returning to his computer.

"Two weeks of unpaid leave," he said quietly. "Don't thank me for knocking off the third one."

I pressed my lips together and took his advice, walking out without another words and closing the door softly behind me. The sight of my co-workers staring at me with varying degrees of horror or glee roused my temper, and I marched past them with gritted teeth. I grabbed my laptop out of my cubicle and stormed down the aisle towards the elevator.

"Did he give you the pink slip, Lois?" Steve called.

"Oh, just shut up, Lombard!" I shouted, and let the elevator cut me off from the bull-pen.

* * *

That night Glen Woodburn called. I answered my phone with a sick dread settling in my gut.

"Con-gra-joo-la-tions, Miss Lane!" he said with exaggerated cheer. He sounded like a used car salesman. "Your article is _the _most-read piece on the _Spectator_'s website in _two freakin' years_! You wouldn't believe the calls that've been coming into my office, Lois. All kinds of reporters are wanting to hear more from you about this. I even got a call from the _Defense Department_, Lois, demanding you retract it. Hope you don't mind me answering that request for you with a definite no, haha!"

"Thanks," I said dully.

"Where've you been? I've been trying to call you since Saturday afternoon."

"Oh, I didn't want to be bombarded with calls that day so I turned my phone off."

He paused. "Everything okay? Say, how's that next article coming, the follow-up piece about 'The Mystery Man?' Investigation moving along well?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "Actually, Woodburn . . . there isn't going to be another article."

There was an even longer pause on the other end.

"My leads went cold," I added, trying to sound as disappointed as possible. "I traced him so far and then boom, dead. I've been scraping the bottom of the barrel for clues for the past three weeks and—"

"_You—promised_," he hissed.

I frowned. "No, I never promised. I told you I'd feed you the story as soon as I got enough info. Well, I didn't get enough info. There's no other story, Woodburn, I'm sorry. You _know_ I'm a good investigator, you know I don't give up unless I absolutely have to!"

"Exactly," he retorted, "which is why I don't believe you, not one single bit. You know I could sue you for breach of contract if you take that story to another paper—"

"I'm not taking it to another paper, okay?" I almost shouted. "There's no story, none. The mystery man covered up his tracks too well and for all I know, if he really is an alien, he's halfway to—to Tatooine by now."

In spite of my growing anger and nervousness, I was a little impressed with my _Star Wars _knowledge. Glen Woodburn was not amused. I heard him grunting on the other end, trying to control himself.

"Fine," he snapped. "Fine. But if I hear you've double-timed me, Lane . . . we at the _Spectator _have our methods of revenge."

"Oh, don't try throwing your weight around with me," I shot back.

"Just remember that, Lois Lane. Just remember it."

And then the phone went dead on the other end.

* * *

**Sorry-not-so-sorry for that cliffhanger the other day, hee-hee. Be prepared for major suspense next chapter!**** (*wink*)**

******P.S. I apologize for a few formatting errors; I was having trouble with the site but it's all fixed now :) **


	9. You Are Not Alone

"And you _really _think that man and that ship were from the same place?" my mother demanded over the phone one evening while I was trying to eat a Subway sandwich. "For Heaven's sake, Lois, you could've been dreaming up the whole thing—_and why didn't you tell me you'd been shot?! _Were you really shot, Lois?"

"Yes, Mom, I've got a scar in my belly," I said dryly around a mouthful of white bread and lunch meat. "I'll show it to you next time you come around."

"No wonder you looked like death warmed over when you came back from there! Lois, why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to concern you, Mom," I said, and _that_ was the absolute truth. "There was no reason to make you panic and send me to every general practitioner in Metropolis to make sure I was recovering—"

"Oh come now, Lois, I wouldn't be so controlling!"

I said nothing and merely sipped my Coke.

"Well, did you ever find out what happened to him? Knowing you, you _had _to be curious!"

"There was no finding him after that. Even the military couldn't locate the ship after it flew away." _But I really should've asked Clark Kent what happened to that ship . . . just to satisfy my own curiosity._

"Well, I'm glad you're safe and sound, but I do hope you realize the damage you've done. It's an interesting story, no doubt, but I wish you hadn't taken it to the _Spectator_. It's not the most dignified paper in the country, you know. Why didn't you take it to one of the more respected papers? Better yet, why didn't you just give it to Perry White?"

"Oh, well, he wasn't that interested in it," I said, and deftly steered the conversation away from Perry. I had no intention of telling her I being punished with two week's unpaid leave. Better to keep quiet about that than let her know I was in disgrace and endure even more of her scorn.

My phone rang off the hook for a few days with reporters wanting exclusive interviews with me, while other reporters congregated in the street around the apartment building until the landlord threatened to call his lawyers. I refused to take calls from numbers that weren't already on my contact list, and for a full week I never left the flat. Until the reporters left their stations in the street, I just ordered pizza or Chinese and let my food come up to me.

I also saw on TV that the Defense Department soundly denied my report, but I didn't care. I didn't really care about anything at this point except that I'd spoken with my mystery man and that I protected his secret.

Within a few days it was clear to everyone that Lois Lane wasn't interested in discussing her piece, and soon they took the hint and left me alone. My apartment had fallen into disrepair over the past two months thanks to all the time I spent out of town, and I intended to spend the two weeks trying to put it back together; I didn't need anyone in my hair. My fridge was full of fuzzy food and I shrieked and grimaced in disgust while I dumped it all in the garbage—hence another reason to order pizza while I was barricaded in my flat. Then I organized my desk, dusted the place, put all the clumsily-folded clothes in my suitcase back in my closet.

But try as I might, I couldn't get Clark Kent out of my head. I _did_ try. I told myself I'd moved past that; it was time to start thinking about new investigations. But while I twisted my face at the sight of moldy grapes or pulled clean laundry from the tiny washer and dryer, I kept thinking about him.

I knew it was bad when I caught myself carrying on an imaginary conversation with him. I'd started out talking to myself while scrubbing a nasty stain off my countertop, and somehow I ended up envisioning myself and Clark Kent walking down that little church parking lot, talking about anything and everything. He was well-read, I already knew that, and he had to have ordinary, funny stories to tell; his childhood couldn't have all been anxiety and secrecy. In my imagination I could make him laugh and he could make me think.

When I caught myself indulging this fantasy I stomped my foot and dug harder at the stain with my short thumbnail.

"You are an _idiot_, Lois Lane," I whispered. "You got so obsessed, you can't let it go. The world can only hope you get over this before you head back to work."

But then that night I dreamed about the man, so I really don't think beating myself up about imaginary conversations did me any good.

The two weeks off, however, were what I needed. The first week of September I returned to _The Daily Planet _bull-pen, refreshed and more focused than I'd felt since Perry first gave me my Ellesmere assignment. Even Mom would've been impressed by my immaculate, professional appearance. Jenny Olsen smiled brightly when she saw me exit the elevator and Steve Lombard winked as I passed his cubicle. Perry's grey eyes lit up when I walked into his office.

"Miss Lois Lane reporting for duty, sir," I said, smiling and cocking my arm at a sharp salute. "What is my new assignment?"

Perry grinned and held out a manila folder without a word. I took it and held it against my abdomen.

"Am I still in the doghouse?" I whispered.

He raised one eyebrow. "And risk you leaving the _Planet _and take your money-making talents to another paper? The publishers would rather fire _me_."

If I hadn't been thirty years old and a dignified professional, I might've run around his desk and kissed the top of his head. As it was, I simply held my new manila folder close to my chest and smiled so wide my face hurt. "Thanks, Perry."

"Don't mention it, kid," he said, waving me out.

* * *

"Working late?" Lombard asked teasingly a few nights later as I passed him in the printer room.

"So are you," I said, glancing at him with a coy smile.

"Well, don't move too fast around these monsters," he said, gesturing towards the machines. "They _smell_ fear—and haste."

"Yeah, I'll remember," I said with a laugh, and plugged my laptop into one of the printers.

A few minutes later I wasn't laughing anymore. First the paper jammed, forcing me to open up the machine and wrestle the paper free; then the toner ran low and the printer's alarm blared rudely in my face. I slammed my hand against the "off" button just to shut it up.

_Come on, come on, come on_, I thought to myself, opening one of the supply drawers at the bottom of the printer. "Does anyone know where we keep the toner for the printer?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone approach the open doorway. I hastily brushed loose strands of hair from my flushed face before looking up at Jenny Olsen.

"Jen, do you—Jenny, what's wrong?"

Her dark eyes were wide. "You've got to see this, Lois, it's all over the news . . . Perry told me to come get you . . ."

I was on my feet as soon as she said Perry's name; Jenny grabbed my arm and pulled me back into the bull-pen. On one wall of the big room hung several flat-screen TV's, each one playing a different news station all day on low volume. All my co-workers who were still here at this hour had gathered around it. Perry stood in their midst, his arms folded, his grey eyes narrowed at the screens. I took one look and gasped.

Each station played footage of a huge, luminescent object hovering in the night sky, and each station proclaimed it, in varying expressions, as a UFO.

If only one station had been playing the footage, I might've called it a bad hoax. But this was CNN, this was FOX, CBS. They couldn't _all_ be taken in. The detailed quotes from military personnel all over the globe, plus multiple sighting locations scrolling by on the bottom of the screens, couldn't possibly be part of an elaborate trick, either.

_"The first confirmed UFO sighting in history." My gosh . . . _

Perry leaned over to me and spoke in a low whisper. "Does that look anything like what you saw on Ellesmere?"

I shook my head. "No . . . it was long, not tall. Like a giant submarine. That looks like a—an octopus."

"Hmmm," Perry grumbled softly. "Do you think—"

Before he could finish his thought, the lights surged and went out with a bang and a hiss, as if all the breakers had been flipped. Startled cries went up and Perry laid a hand on my arm. I took a deep breath.

_Come on, it's okay . . . that was just coincidence. _

_ Coincidence? _my practical side countered._ You've watched enough Sherlock. You know the universe is rarely so lazy._

The TVs suddenly flickered and we watched, stupefied, as the screens came back to life with

a soft hum, showing only the white static I used to call "flurries" as a kid. The lights were still out and a quick glance out the window told me the rest of Metropolis was completely dark. Across the bay, it looked like Gotham City was out of power, too.

"Why are the televisions working and not the lights?" Jenny whispered close by me.

"_You are not alone._"

Jenny's hand clenched mine and I drew in a sharp breath. The deep, menacing voice, slightly tinged by the static, came from the televisions. As the voice spoke the words appeared on the screen, one at a time, in big, black, block letters.

"_You are not alone_," the voice repeated, a little louder this time. "_You are not alone_ . . ."

"Great golly Miss Molly," Steve Lombard said under his breath.

Perry reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The grey static and black words were on the screen. I reached into my own pocket and found the same thing. I pressed the home button but nothing happened until I frantically turned it off completely; then it went blank and I breathed a sigh of relief.

It didn't do me any good, though; the TVs still played the eery transmission, along with all the computers—which had also come back to life—and every smartphone in the room.

The static increased to a blood-curdling pitch, but only for a moment. The words vanished, the repetitive message stopped, and I, like everyone else around me, gasped in horror as a grotesque, metal-clad figure appeared through the grey blur.

"_My name is General Zod_," the creature said in that same bone-chilling voice. "_I come from Krypton, a world far from yours_."

"Krypton?" Jenny whimpered. "Where's that?"

"_I have journeyed across an ocean of stars to reach you_ . . ."

"Well, at least he's kinda poetic about it," Lombard whispered. Perry jabbed him hard with his elbow.

"_For some time your world has sheltered one of my citizens_," the voice went on. "_I request that you return this individual to my custody. For reasons unknown, he has chosen to keep his existence a secret from you_ . . ."

I drew in a shuddering breath and Perry heard it; he looked swiftly down at me and I met his gaze, more terrified now than I'd been when the voice first began to speak. My thoughts were in Kansas, and for the millionth time I saw Clark Kent's eyes gazing down at me with compassion as he seared my hemorrhage closed.

"_He will look like you_," the voice added. "_But he is not one of you. To those of you who may know his current location, the fate of your planet rests in your hands_."

For a moment it was like there was no one in the room but myself, and this General Zod was staring straight at me, knowing I was the one who held the secret. I felt sick to my stomach. Perry looked hard at me but now I avoided his gaze; I backed away from him and staggered to the window, wanting nothing more than to get away from those screens.

"_To Kal-El, I say this_," the voice concluded with terrifying firmness,"_surrender in twenty four hours . . . or watch the world suffer the consequences._"

I drew a gasping breath as I caught sight of a tiny light, the UFO, drifting in front of the moon and back into the night sky. I had never heard the name "Kal-El" before. It certainly wasn't one of Clark Kent's pseudonyms. And yet, in spite of all my feeble, hopeful protests, one thought pounded relentlessly through my head over the irritating static.

_He's looking for Clark. The fate of my planet rests in my hands._

The lights came back on and everyone gasped. I blinked hard, trying to clear my head, and followed the spaceship with my eyes until it disappeared behind a skyscraper.

"All right, everyone, stay cool," Perry bellowed. Forced calm was like a starch; it made him sound stiff. "I want people on the phone, I want you to call the Pentagon, find out who saw this thing first and how long it's been orbiting the Earth—I want someone finding out if there's any information anywhere about some planet called Krypton—Lois."

He'd come up behind me and said my name softly as he laid a hand on my shoulder. I turned and tried to swallow down my nausea.

"W-what do you want me to do?" I stammered.

"I want you to go home. You need some time to think."

I nodded, brushed a strand of hair from my face with a shaking hand. "Okay. Okay . . ."

"Straight home, _now_," he admonished. "You hear?"

I could only nod again. I grabbed my laptop back out of my cubicle and staggered out of the chaotic room, numb to the action and the ringing phones and the nervous shouted commands.

* * *

_I stand in the middle of a dimly-lit cell, feeling small and vulnerable. A cold, gauntleted hand is __clamped on the back of my neck, and I know it belongs to the metal-clad figure I saw on the __televisions in the bull-pen. I hear the familiar, heartless voice, and it's a whisper in my ear._

_ "Tell me," it hisses, and the voice is muffled as if the man speaks through a ventilator._

_ My heart races as four men appear in front of me. I see Joe Wilder in his Arctic gear, stern and authoritative as he confronts a smart-mouthed subordinate. I see baby-faced Will MacFarlane in a greasy busboy apron, smiling shyly at the girls who flutter their eyelashes at him. I see a bearded Luke Marshall in fisherman's gear, gazing anxiously at a burning oil rig._

_ These three don't pay much attention to me; they're just memories. But the fourth man is all here and his reassuring eyes are on my face. He's in blue jeans and a t-shirt, his dark curls tousled boyishly, and I want nothing more than for him to hold me close the way I did in that alien ship after he rescued me from the angry robot. _

_ He smiles at me, gives his head a slow, dignifed nod. His deep, gentle voice is soothing. _

_ "It's okay," he murmurs, his eyes still fixed on me. "You're going to be okay."_

_ The hand tightens on the back of my neck; the cruel voice snaps in my ear. "Is he Kal-El?" _

_ Clark Kent tilts his head back and something hard and defiant flashes in his eyes. I open my mouth but no words come out. I can't do this, I can't . . ._

_ "Is he Kal-El?" the general roars. _

_ "I—I don't know!" I scream. I try to twist free but the hand tightens. He's choking me. Clark Kent steps forward, his fists clenched. If he hits this man I know it'll crumple that armor like a tin can . . ._

_ "Let her go," he says, as threateningly as if he's speaking to Chuck on Ellesmere Island. "She's innocent, Zod. I'm the one you want."_

_ My blood pounds in my ears. The hand on my neck thrusts me away and I fall forward on my __hands and knees. I look up and see the man in the hideous armor walk towards Clark Kent with his gauntleted hands balled into sharp fists . . ._

And then I bolted upright in bed with a choked scream. It took me a second to realize I wasn't in a cell at all; Clark wasn't here and neither was General Zod. I was in my bedroom with the door locked. The clock on my nightstand told me it was 2 o'clock in the morning. A distant siren wailing somewhere outside my apartment was the only other sound apart from my own gasping breaths.

I drew my knees up to my chest and dropped my forehead on them, deciding that I must have dozed off trying to decide what I'd do in the morning. To turn Clark over to the authorities . . . or not? According to Zod, the fate of the world was in _my _hands. I groaned miserably at the thought.

"Kal-El," I whispered, plunging my hands into my hair. "Are _you_ really Kal-El?"

And what if he wasn't? What if I turned in Clark Kent and he was completely innocent? He told me he'd come here as a baby, but what if he wasn't from this place called Krypton? What if he was from a different planet? And why, if he _was_ Kal-El, would General Zod want him back?

Whatever his reasons were, they couldn't be that good.

If I made a report saying Clark Kent was probably Kal-El, I might very well be sending him into big trouble . . . maybe even to his death. But if I did nothing, what would happen to the rest of us? For all I knew, this Zod had a whole army aboard his ship. They might descend on Earth and rape, pillage, and murder until they got what they wanted.

I settled against my pillows again, playing nervously with the ends of my hair. I didn't put too much stock in dreams. They were just the brain's reactions during sleep to past events and emotions. This nightmare, however, was telling me what I already knew by instinct.

_"Surrender in twenty-four hours or watch this world suffer the consequences."_ In other words, come or I'll wreak havoc on this world you love. I know you couldn't bear to watch them suffer. I know you would rather risk your own secret than let your friends or your family die—so you'd better give yourself up.

Only Clark Kent, the man who spent a lifetime adopting a world that wasn't his own, would be that selfless. Which, in turn, meant that if Clark Kent was Kal-El, he would turn himself in without any help from me. The world would be saved, Zod would get what he wanted.

One man for the world. A Christ-like sacrifice. The innocent lamb on the altar.

To anyone else, it would've seemed like a reasonable exchange. A few months ago I probably wouldn't have given it a second thought. Tonight, however, I covered my mouth to stop my chin from quivering and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to hold back my tears.

* * *

**So sorry I didn't update yesterday...work and a new baby goat here at the farm demanded all of Tuesday's extra time! If updates do start coming at slightly longer intervals, though, don't worry: I'm still writing, it's just that a busy summer schedule may force me to continue in shorter spurts :)**


	10. Treason

**Okay, I know neither the book nor the movie mentioned anything about Cheyenne Mountain—BUT both mention NORTHCOM headquarters. Which, of course prompted me to do more research. I found out NORTHCOM HQ is in the Colorado Springs area and Cheyenne Mountain, described by some as "America's fortress" and used primarily during the Cold War, is nearby. It's my fanfic, I'm entitled to a few fun tweaks, and this one of a few that I'll be making in these next chapters ;) **

* * *

There was no more sleeping that night. I got up, took a cold shower, and made myself a pot of extra-strong coffee. At five o'clock I got a text from my mother: _What do you know about this General Zod?_

I texted her back: _Not much. Hope I'll find out more when I get to work. Are you okay?_

_ I'm fine_, Mom replied. _If we have to convert our basement into a bomb shelter, you come here. I don't want you underneath the DP skyscraper with that unwieldy globe on its top. That thing could crash down on top of you._

In spite of myself and all my past irritations with my mother, I smiled. _Thanks, Mom. Take care of yourself. I'll text you if I learn anything major._

Dressed and eating breakfast, I turned on the TV and found every station covering last night's horror story. The military had made direct contact with General Zod soon after his transmission; he'd reiterated his demand for Kal-El's surrender and apparently showed no signs of giving Earth any extra time if Kal-El didn't show up in twenty-four hours.

"Come on, Clark," I whispered, switching channels. "What are you going to do?"

Glen Woodburn's face suddenly appeared on the screen. I yelped and quickly went back to that particular channel. It wasn't my favorite station by any stretch of the imagination; the network's talking head was known in the journalistic world as a jerk. It didn't surprise me that Woodburn was a guest commentator. What scared me was the headline at the bottom of the screen: "_Spectator _editor: 'Rumors of Arctic spaceship connected to extraterrestrial message.' "

"I think everyone's probably asking themselves this morning, 'who _is _this Kal-El person?' " the host was saying. "And why—not to mention _how_—has he kept his existence a secret from the rest of us for so long? I mean, we really have no idea who this guy is, right?"

"We know _nothing_, and that's why I'm speaking out right now," Woodburn said with a self-righteousness that would've been laughable under different circumstances. "He could be a criminal on his planet, this Krypton place, for all we know. And if he is, why should _we_ pay for his crimes?"

"Aren't people innocent until proven guilty?" the host prodded.

"Sure," Woodburn said with a prim adjustment of his thick-rimmed glasses, "but this case is not within American jurisdiction and we have no reason to protect him. If this Kal-El doesn't mean us any harm, he should turn himself in to his people and face the consequences . . . and if he won't, then maybe we should. Lois Lane of _The Daily Planet _knows who this guy is. I think she's the one we should be questioning."

I dropped my coffee cup and it broke on the tile floor. The crash jolted me back to my senses and I ducked, trying to gather up the shards in a dishtowel while the network host's voice went on excitedly.

"Glen Woodburn of the _Spectator_ speaking with us about last night's message, asserting that Lois Lane of _The Daily Planet _and author of the recent article 'The Truth about Ellesmere Island' knows the identity of the alien fugitive—"

My phone rang and I grabbed it off the countertop above me. Perry's name flashed across the screen and I picked up. "Hello?"

"Are you watching this crap?" Perry demanded. "For once I actually agree with Woodburn. Who is he, Lois? Do you know where he is?"

"No!" I blurted out as a piece of broken ceramic sliced my finger; I hastily pressed the cut against the towel. "And even if I did know, I wouldn't say."

"The—entire—_world_—is being threatened, Lois!" Perry hissed. "This isn't time to fall back on journalistic integrity. I thought you would've turned him in by now."

"I—I know," I whispered, glancing behind the counter at my television. "But I was waiting for him to . . . to . . ."

"Lois, listen. The FBI got here even before Woodburn started throwing his weight around on TV. They're questioning people in the bull-pen and they're gonna get to me next. Lombard says they're throwing around words like 'treason'—"

I heard squealing tires and scrambled to my feet, jerking back the curtains from the living room window. A van and three black cars had just parked in the street below my apartment building, and each bore the acronym "FBI" on their sides.

"Lois?" Perry called.

"I've gotta go, Perry," I whispered, and hit "end call" before he could say another word.

I ran back into my bedroom and yanked open the drawer where I'd hidden the photos of Clark Kent. I grabbed them, stuffed them into my laptop bag, and slung the bag over my shoulder. Then I slammed my phone into my back pocket and ran out of the flat, locking the door behind me.

_Fire escape, use the fire escape, Lois _. . . I threw myself against the door and found myself in the alley behind the apartment building. I ran down the rickety fire escape as fast as I could without making it clatter. I looked both ways at the bottom, saw two FBI agents at one end of the alley; I rushed in the opposite direction, towards the back of the building and the quieter street behind it, formulating a sketchy plan.

_I'll grab a taxi and go into Gotham. I can hide better there until the search dies down, and then I'll get on a southbound train to Washington and catch a flight to . . . I don't know, somewhere, I'll figure that out when I get to that point—_

I'd glanced over my shoulder to see if I was being pursued from the other end of the alley; when I whirled back around, it was to find myself face-to-face with a black FBI van. The van door slid open and three men in body armor jumped out, their automatic rifles pointed at me.

"FBI!" one of them shouted. "Hands up, drop the bag!"

_Don't be an idiot, Lane, just obey them! _I lowered the laptop bag and raised my hands above my head. One of the men grabbed my arms above the elbow and jerked them behind my back; I felt cold metal encircle my wrists. The second soldier grabbed my laptop bag; the third kept his gun trained on me.

I tossed my disheveled hair out of my eyes and glanced at a fourth man leaning out of the van. My mouth dropped open when I recognized him.

"Miss Lane," Colonel Hardy said coldly. "We meet again."

He held out his hand and the soldier with my laptop bag handed it over to him. Hardy took it without even looking at it and jerked his head at the interior of the van. I was pushed forward, my knee banging hard against the side of the van; wincing with pain, I manuevered myself into a seat as carefully as I could without hitting my head on the ceiling.

"Lois Lane, you are under arrest," Hardy said as one of the soldiers buckled me in. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?"

"Yes," I murmured stupidly, hardly able to believe this was really happening to me. "Where are you taking me?"

Colonel Hardy sighed, nodded to the driver. The van roared to life and I gritted my teeth as my neighborhood zipped past the tinted windows.

"You're on your way to Cheyenne Mountain."

* * *

The FBI van with its escort of several black cars came to a stop at the Metropolis airport, where a military helicopter was waiting. I was quickly hustled into the chopper and made to sit down. Colonel Hardy gave me a long, somewhat sympathetic look; he muttered something to one of the soldiers, who handed him a set of keys. To my surprise, Hardy unlocked my handcuffs.

"You have to remain cuffed, but I reckon you don't have to keep your arms behind your back at this point," he explained a little gruffly. "No use in your hands going to sleep."

My fingers were already numb, and when my arms fell forward I saw deep red marks on my wrists. My palms started to tingle. He puts the handcuffs back on, but now I was able to sit back and let my hands rest in my lap. I looked up at him and managed to whisper my thanks.

"Don't mention it," he said, and took a seat behind me.

I was still reeling from his announcement that they were taking me to Cheyenne Mountain. Back in the days of the Cold War, the Air Force Station and its nuclear bunker within the mountain were the headquarters for the North American Aerospace Defense Command. After NORAD/NORTHCOM moved their headquarters into Colorado Springs, the base at Cheyenne Mountain became an Alternate Command center.

For NORTHCOM to have moved their people back in Cheyenne Mountain meant they expected something as bad as a nuclear attack, if Zod wasn't appeased.

Two hours later the chopper landed within sight of the Rockies. Another black van waited for us at the airfield and we were driven into an even more mountainous region. When I caught sight of a huge tunnel going into the mountain, I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was entering America's biggest, most important fortress; if I wasn't so nervous about the extenuating circumstances, I would've probably been beside myself with delight at such a rare adventure.

Once inside the underground base, however, my excitement turned to anxiety. Everything in here was eerily quiet and tense, as if everyone waited for some terrible blow. I wondered if this was what it had been like during the Cold War . . . everybody scared out of their minds and nobody knowing who would strike first or where.

At least with the Soviets, you knew—somewhat—who you were dealing with, and what kind of damage they could do if someone decided it was time to push the big red button. You didn't have that luxury with aliens you'd only met twelve hours ago.

Hardy had separated from me without a word as soon as the van stopped in the underground parking garage. With a soldier on either side of me, each holding firmly to my elbows, I was escorted through the base's cold, narrow corridors. When they came to a heavy metal door and one of them pushed it open, my heart sank.

Inside was a small, windowless cell with a cot, a toilet, and a small TV. That was all.

"Go on," one of the men muttered, unlocking my handcuffs. He pushed me in and slammed the heavy door shut behind him. I whirled to face the door as the lock turned with an ominous, clanking echo, then sat down on the cot and rubbed my arms.

"Okay, Lane, stay calm," I whispered. "They're not gonna leave you in here forever. And look at the bright side . . . you're on a military base . . . the safest one in the country, probably . . . and you're an army brat, they know who you are. Stiff upper lip."

I released a long breath and suddenly realized I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well and I'd been running on adrenaline for the past couple of hours. Kicking off my shoes, I laid down on the cot, drew the single, thick blanket over me, and laid my head on the pillow. Strangely enough, I dropped off to sleep much easier than I'd done last night.

* * *

The scraping of the door woke me and I rubbed my eyes. The sight of a petite, sweet-faced female officer standing over me made me bolt with surprise into a sitting position. Her name tag read "Captain C. Farris."

"Miss Lane," she said quietly, "I'm to take you to see General Swanwick at once. If you promise not to give me any trouble, I won't have to handcuff you."

Her big dark eyes pleaded with me to behave. I pushed my disheveled hair from my face and cleared my throat.

"I'll be good, I promise," I said with a small smile.

Captain Farris nodded, relieved, and motioned for me to come along. I put my shoes back on and obeyed, wishing I'd had a chance to make myself look somewhat more presentable. I was a good five inches taller than the little captain; if I'd wanted to bolt, I could.

But seriously, what were the chances of me getting out of Cheyenne Mountain at this point? I didn't want to get into bigger trouble and I had no intentions of breaking trust with Captain Farris anymore than I meant to betray Clark Kent. I was a general's daughter; I knew how to carry myself with honor.

In moments I found myself in another windowless room, but this one was much larger and even colder. In the center of the room General Swanwick sat at a table, on which my laptop bag lay. Colonel Hardy stood behind him with a nerdy-looking fellow who I recognized as Dr. Emil Hamilton, the scientist I'd met on Ellesmere Island.

My final observation was of a large, seemingly-unnecessary window on one wall of the room. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize it was probably two-way.

"Have a seat, Miss Lane," General Swanwick said. He was a tall, well-built man with a face like weather-beaten stone. I approached the table slowly and pulled back the empty chair opposite his.

"Colonel Hardy tells me he and his men caught you trying to evade them," Swanwick said. "Is that true?"

"Yes," I said quietly.

"Why were you running away?"

I sat a little straighter. "Why were they looking for me?"

"Because we have reason to believe you know where the alien fugitive is." He reached for my laptop bag and zipped it open. I watched, my heart beating faster, as he laid out my laptop, the phone that had been confiscated from my pocket at the Metropolis airport, and the two photos of Clark Kent.

"Your boss, Mr. White, informed us about an hour after your arrest that you spent June, July, and August investigating the identity of the man who, you claim, saved your life on Ellesmere Island. I've also read the article Glen Woodburn published two weeks ago. Is this the man you were investigating?"

I held my breath. "Yes."

"Did you come to the conclusion that he's the man who saved your life?"

I thought about my lie to Perry, that my leads had gone cold and I hadn't been able to find my mystery man. It hadn't worked on him. It wouldn't work now.

"Yes, that's him," I whispered.

Swanwick peered hard at me. "Is he the alien General Zod is looking for?"

"I don't know."

The general's eyes hardened even more. "I don't have time to play games with you. Zod gave us twenty-four hours and we really don't want to find out what he has planned if we don't give up his citizen."

Dr. Hamilton cleared his throat. "We believe the ship you discovered in the glacier transmitted a signal that guided General Zod to Earth. The question is, why is this particular individual so important to him? Did this man ever discuss why he was here, Miss Lane?"

"No, he didn't," I snapped, "and I honestly don't know why you've brought me here after you spent so much time and energy denying that ship's existence! For three months you treated my story and reports about that spaceship with complete and utter contempt. If you'd just listened to us, we might not be in this situation!"

"That's beside the point," Swanwick barked. "Now be reasonable! If you're found guilty of treason against the United States you could be given the death penalty, for God's sake!"

I threw my head back. "I've been threatened with death before, General. It doesn't scare me."

"Well, these aliens sure as hell scare me and I have no intention of letting them walk all over this planet raping and murdering our people if I can help it."

I lowered my eyes, feeling my resolution crumble a little. When Swanwick brought his fist down on the table, I jumped.

"He's not human, Miss Lane, d—it!" he cried, his face full of pleading now. "Why are you protecting him?"

"I'm—not—protecting—him," I said through gritted teeth. "He doesn't need my protection. And he's going to turn himself in, General. I don't need to tell you a thing about him because he's a good man—a noble man—better than any human I can name—and _he loves us_. He won't let our world suffer the consequences. And that's all I'll say about him until he comes."

I tossed my hair behind my shoulder. My face was hot and I knew it probably showed in the cold light of this room, but I didn't care; Clark Kent would come before his time was up and my faith in him would be rewarded.

_And if anyone can stop them, it's him. It's got to be him. _

The door of the interrogation room opened and I glanced over my shoulder. A young soldier stood there, his eyes wide and his face pale. He saluted hastily.

"Sir, we've, umm . . . we've got a situation at the tunnel entrance."

Swanwick frowned. "What kind of a situation?"

"It—it's the alien, sir. It's Kal-El. He says he's come to give himself up."

* * *

**And if you're really nice to me I'll post the interrogation scene tomorrow. (*winks*)**


	11. The Alien Wants To See You

**I wouldn't normally post two days in a row but I kinda promised and you were very nice ;) **

* * *

I sank to a seat on my cot after Captain Farris shut the cell door behind me and dropped my head in my hands. I couldn't decide whether to laugh because I'd never, ever forget that shocked look on General Swanwick's face when the soldier told him Kal-El was at the entrance of Cheyenne Mountain, or cry because I'd been right. Clark Kent _would _give himself up.

We didn't have to go after him. I didn't have to betray him. He was going to surrender himself to Zod without any help from the rest of us.

I was still on my cot with my elbow on my knees and my face cupped in my hands when I heard running footsteps on the other side of the door. I sat up straight just as Captain Farris threw the door open. Her eyes were wider than ever and she gulped hard before speaking.

"Miss Lane," she whispered, "the alien wants to see you."

I bolted to my feet and caught myself before I ran out ahead of her. She closed her hand over my elbow as if afraid she might lose me and led me briskly back to the interrogation room. I felt light-headed with anticipation. For a moment I was afraid that my guesses might be wrong and it wouldn't be Clark Kent after all . . . maybe Kal-El was someone else, and Clark wasn't the only alien on this planet.

Captain Farris opened the door. Swanwick was at the table again; opposite him, with his back to me, sat a tall, dark-haired man wearing a long, crimson cape. As soon as the door opened the general stood. The stranger did the same, turning towards the door and calmly meeting my gaze. I drew in a sharp breath.

There was Clark Kent, in a steel-blue, skin-tight suit that accentuated every hard muscle in his body; the cape rippled and swished as he drew himself up to his full height. I stared blankly at him. He looked nothing like the quiet, unassumingly-dressed young man I met a few weeks ago. In fact, he looked like he'd just come down from Mount Olympus.

And then I noticed the silver handcuffs on his wrists. My horror must've showed on my face, for he dropped his gaze and turned his head slightly in Swanwick's direction.

"You said I could speak to her alone," he said, stern and quiet. "That was the deal."

Swanwick nodded. "Have a seat, Miss Lane."

My mouth dry, I slowly approached the chair he held out to me and sat down. Without another word, Swanwick stepped out of the room with Captain Farris and shut the door behind him. Clark waited a moment, then pushed his chair back with his foot and sat down opposite me, his cuffed hands on the table in front of him. I felt my face go red and my heart started fluttering like a schoolgirl's in the presence of the cutest guy in class.

"Are you all right?" he whispered—the last thing I expected him to say.

"Yeah," I whispered back.

"They haven't hurt you?"

"No, of course not." I glanced sidelong at the two-way mirror, giving him a significant lift of my eyebrows and hoping he knew what I meant by it. There was no telling if Swanwick would keep his end of the bargain or not; for all we knew, there might be people listening on the other side of that wall.

To my relief, a slow, understanding smile crept over his lips; he cleared his throat and raised his deep, rich voice above a whisper. "Like my uniform?"

I smiled my approval. "You look _really_ good in blue. Where'd you get it?"

"That ship, where we first met."

I raised my eyebrows. "You mean to tell me you found a custom-made skinsuit on a spaceship that had been buried in ice for thousands of years?"

He shook his head and smiled brighter than I'd ever seen him do before. "Not custom-made, no. One of my ancestors probably wore it when they came here to explore the North Pole."

"Well, your ancestors must've been pretty big men to fill out that suit the way you can."

"_Or_ maybe it's just a convenient one-size-fits-all deal," he retorted playfully.

Before I could stop myself I snorted and ducked my head. Clark smiled, clearly pleased with himself for having amused me. I drew in a breath and drummed my fingers on the table until I decided I could look at him again without snickering.

"So how did you know I was here?" I asked.

He sighed, looked at his hands. "Your arrest was all over the news. As soon as I found out you were here, I decided Cheyenne Mountain would be the best place to hand myself over. I couldn't decide where to do it before."

"Then you _had_ already decided to do it," I murmured.

He nodded. "I decided early this morning."

I leaned forward, automatically lowering my voice again. "Why does Zod want you?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Then why are you surrendering to him, when you don't even know if you—if you'll come back alive?"

His eyes turned thoughtful. "I'm surrendering to mankind, Miss Lane. There's a difference."

"And you _let_ them handcuff you," I said bitterly, glaring at his bound wrists. "As if you were some common criminal . . ."

"Well, it wouldn't be much of a surrender if I resisted," he said with an expressive lift of one eyebrow. "And if it makes them feel more secure . . . well, then, all the better for it."

I stared at him, astounded. Here he was, going to what might be his death—and the people he might die to protect were treating him like dirt. The unjustice of it made my chest burn and I tried to take my mind off of it before I got too angry. My gaze drifted to the raised, curving emblem on the chest of his uniform. I cocked my head at it; I recognized that symbol from the Ellesmere ship.

"What does the 'S' stand for?" I asked.

He smiled patiently. "It's not an 'S.' On my world, it stands for 'hope.' "

"Well, here it's an 'S.' " I leaned back in my chair. "You really could give yourself a catchy name based on it, but I don't think 'Hope-Man' will get you many headlines."

Clark's eyebrow shot up again and he smirked.

"How about . . . 'Superman?' "

His smile turned wry. "Sounds just a little showy, don't you think?"

I opened my mouth to make another light-hearted comment—_wait a minute, are we actually __flirting__ with each other?_—when a loud crackle of static made me jump. Clark stiffened, drew himself up; the quiet Kansas boy transformed into a young lord of Krypton in the blink of an eye as Dr. Hamilton's voice came over an unseen speaker.

"Sir—ahem—my name is—"

"Dr. Emil Hamilton," Clark said coolly, staring straight at the mirror. "I can see your ID in your breast pocket. Along with a half-eaten roll of Wintergreen Lifesavers."

I gaped at him.His eyes shifted to the right. "I can also see that squad of soldiers in the next room preparing a tranquilizer agent. You won't need it, General Swanwick."

"You—you can't expect us not to take precautions," Hamilton stammered. "You might be carrying some kind of alien pathogen!"

Clark smiled, shook his head. "I've been here thirty-three years, Doctor. Haven't infected anyone yet."

"That you know of," Swanwick's deep voice boomed over the speaker. "We have legitimate security concerns. You've revealed your identity to Miss Lane over there. Why won't you do the same for us?"

Clark's jaw tightened, and before anyone could react, he rose to his feet and pulled his bound hands apart without any effort at all. The interrogation room echoed with the snap and clank of broken metal and I bolted upright in my chair.

"Let's put our cards on the table here, General," he said firmly, striding towards the two-way mirror. "You're scared of me because you can't control me. You don't, and you never will, but that doesn't make me your enemy."

"Then who is? Zod?" I heard Swanwick demand.

"That's what I'm worried about. I was sent from my planet before I was more than a few days old, but I know now that on that world Zod was a tyrant and a criminal. I can't imagine he'd treat the people of Earth any differently than the people of his own planet, if he had the chance."

Swanwick paused; when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its belligerence. "Be that as it may, I've been given orders to hand you over to him. We've informed Zod of your surrender and he's sending a dropship to come and pick you up in half an hour. We should probably start making our way to the designated rendezvous point."

Clark stared into the mirror, seeing things I couldn't, and in its reflection I saw something like pain flicker in his eyes. But it was gone so fast I almost thought I'd imagined it.

"Do what you have to do, General," he said quietly. "All I ask is that Miss Lane and I have five minutes of complete privacy. And by privacy, I mean that this time I don't want _anyone_ eavesdropping on the other side of this mirror. Believe me, I'll know if someone's listening in."

To my surprise, Swanwick agreed. "We'll be moving out. But we'll come and get you both in five minutes. Understood?"

"Completely," Clark said.

He stood there for what seemed like a long time, waiting for them to file out of the room on the other side of the mirror. Then he walked back to the table. I stood up and faced him.

"How did you know about Zod being a tyrant on Krypton?" I whispered.

Clark pressed his lips together, drew a deep breath. "The ship on Ellesmere . . . I met my father there."

"Your fa—"

"My biological one. It was just a recording of him, I don't know how it worked . . . but I lived with him for a month on that ship. Plenty of time for him to tell me my history." He drew his arms up as if to stick his hands in his pockets, then remembered his suit didn't have any; he clenched his fingers instead. "My real parents sent me away from Krypton because the planet was about to be destroyed—or rather, it was destroying itself. It was morally bankrupt, the people had wasted the planet's natural resources, the government controlled every aspect of life. Everyone denied the inevitable but my parents. So they sent me here for safety . . . rather like Moses in the bulrushes."

I was familiar with the old Bible story and nodded, marveling at the courage of parents who'd send their baby into the unknown.

"Before Krypton imploded on itself, though, Zod attempted a coup," Clark continued. "He was a military leader, pretty well-respected, I think—but he believed genocide could purge Krypton of the ones he held responsible for the planet's downfall. There was already a genetic-engineering program in place. Zod was just going to take it to a whole new level and completely eliminate the bloodlines he thought detrimental to society."

"Oh," I murmured. "Like a Hitler . . . or a Stalin."

Clark nodded. "Exactly. And anyone who'd stoop to genocide on one planet won't hesitate to do it on another if he thinks it'll get him what he wants. Which is why I'm doing this."

His tone suddenly became more urgent, as if he was trying to get me to understand his plight. "Those people up there in that ship . . . they may be Kryptonians, but _this_ is my home. I'll do anything I can to protect it and the people I love. And if I can save them, then it's worth the risk that I might be about to die. Does that make sense, Miss Lane?"

I tried to swallow down the aching lump in my throat. He needed someone to encourage him, to understand and tell him it made perfectly good sense. And it _did_ make good sense to someone who already knew what kind of person he was. Any other course of action would, for Clark Kent, be uncharacteristic.

"Yes . . . it makes sense," I whispered. "And I knew you would come."

He gave a start. "How?"

In spite of myself, I managed a small smile. "If I thought you'd leave us all to die, then all my research about you didn't do me one bit of good."

He recognized the words; they were pretty much what he'd said to me in the cemetery about himself. He opened his mouth to say something in response, but he suddenly stiffened, dragged his eyes from my face.

"They're coming," he whispered, and before I could say anything I heard footsteps and the door opened behind us. Swanwick appeared with Captain Farris and several soldiers who, while well-built, were still considerably smaller than this superman.

"Sir—Miss Lane—it's time," Swanwick said quietly.

Clark nodded and stepped forward. He held out his hands; Swanwick shook his head.

"No sir, no handcuffs. I don't think we need them."

"General, may I come too?" I asked.

He frowned. Clark spoke quickly. "I'd appreciate it if she did, sir."

Swanwick hesitated for only a second. "All right. Captain Farris, radio the Humvee, tell them we're bringing two more passengers instead of just one."


	12. The Black Zero

I sat in the back of the Humvee, gathering my hair into a ponytail with an elastic band I'd slipped onto my wrist while still in my flat. Clark sat ramrod-straight beside me, his eyes on the mountainous landscape outside the tinted windows. As I put my arms down, my hand brushed against his red cape; it was soft and smooth like satin, and like a curious little kid I rubbed it between my fingers.

"Wrinkle-resistant," he whispered teasingly. I smiled back at him, decided to be a little more daring: I touched his arm, ran my fingers over his sleeve. The material felt like thin, flexible metal. _Chain mail_, I instinctively thought. _But still some kind of fabric. _

Clark didn't flinch when I touched him, not like he did in the cemetery. He simply watched me as if I fascinated him, and with something that could only be described as tenderness. My heart pounded a little too wildly at that thought, and telling myself not to let it go to my head, I drew my hand back and looked at my feet.

I still blushed, though. It was rather disconcerting.

The Humvee stopped behind a concrete barrier manned by several dozen troops and tanks. As I looked out the window I realized we were on a huge plain a few minutes below Cheyenne Mountain. The place was empty of vegetation and eerily quiet, even with all the cars, tanks, and men. Clark stepped out first, his cape rustling softly, and held out his hand to me as I unbuckled myself.

Normally I would've given a thanks-but-no-thanks shake of my head and jumped down by myself. As it was I gladly accepted the gentlemanly gesture, and as I did so, remembered him helping me out of the chopper on Ellesmere Island. My throat tightened and I threw my head back, trying to catch my breath.

"Just walk right out there to that boulder," Swanwick ordered. "The dropship is on its way."

"Thank you," Clark said, and walked away. I followed automatically. Swanwick laid a hand on my arm.

"You should stay here, Miss Lane," he said quietly. "You'll be flown back to Metropolis as soon as the dropship heads back into space."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "General, are you _suggesting _I stay, or _commanding_ me? Because someone needs to be with him, and if I can be that person, I _will_."

Swanwick withdrew his gaze and to my immense relief waved me off with his hand. I jogged after Clark; hearing my footsteps, he looked over his shoulder and stopped in surprise.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Standing by you," I answered, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and looking at the sky rather than him. Composure was of the utmost importance; neither of us said a word as we approached the boulder Swanwick had mentioned. Once there, Clark turned to me abruptly.

"Just in case I never come back," he said, "I want to thank you."

I gave him an incredulous look. "For what?"

"For believing in me." He frowned, as if the very idea amazed him. "You told me the world would need me one day, and that I'd be ready. And you didn't turn me in. You didn't think you had to. No one's ever had that kind of faith in me."

I shrugged. "It didn't make much difference in the end, did it?"

"It did to me," he said firmly.

I swallowed. It hadn't really occurred to me that my faith in him would mean so much . . . but to a man who'd been considered a freak all his life, maybe it meant everything in the world. I offered my left hand, hoping for a final handshake before I had to go back. He studied it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to touch me. Then he took it with his right hand.

By doing that, it wasn't a handshake, not the proper, formal kind. He just held my hand like he would've done if he was an ordinary man and I was the woman who'd go to the moon and back for him, and we held hands simply because we wanted to. My breath caught at the mental image and at the long look he gave me as his strong fingers closed over mine.

A dull, distant boom made me jump. Clark looked quickly at the sky, seeing and hearing things I couldn't. "They're coming. You should probably go back now."

I drew a shuddering breath and didn't move. I didn't want expression turned desperate and his grip tightened on my hand.

"Go, Lois, please," he whispered.

It was the first time he'd ever said my given name. I blinked back tears and staggered away, and he held onto my hand until he couldn't anymore. Halfway back to the barricade I looked back. A dark object swooped down from the sky, growing larger as it approached; Clark faced it with hands clenched, his cape rippling softly in the breeze.

_Goodbye, Superman._

I reached the barricade and saw, among the helmeted troops, Colonel Hardy standing beside Swanwick. I hadn't noticed him before; instinctively, I moved to his side. He glanced at me and offered me a look of guarded sympathy.

"Everything all right, Miss Lane?"

I nodded, turning to face the otherworldly sight of the descending ship. Dust billowed around it, settling again as the engines quieted down and a black ramp lowered from its side. The ship looked like a crab, I thought, and was about as big as a large fishing boat.

Almost as impressive as the ship, however, was the person who strode confidently down the ramp. As far as size went the alien was no larger than a tall human, and to my surprise the close-fitting black armor accentuated an undeniably feminine figure. But even the way she walked screamed authority, and the way she held her helmeted head told me, without ever seeing her face, that she was proud and haughty.

She stopped in front of Clark and said something to him; I strained my vision and saw that she'd lifted her visor. Then she brushed past Clark, making her way to the barricade. The men around me tensed and I heard a metallic click as automatic rifles were brought to shoulders.

"I am Sub-Commander Faora-Ul," the woman announced, as majestically as if she'd just said "I am Cleopatra" or "I am Helen of Troy." Her sharp features were beautiful and her black eyes took us all in before locking on Swanwick. "Are you the commanding officer here?"

"I am," Swanwick replied coolly.

"General Zod would like this woman to accompany me."

My mouth dropped open as she raised a finger at me. Instinctively I looked to Clark. He was watching the whole thing, and as soon as Faora pointed at me he stiffened.

Colonel Hardy stepped in front of me. "You said you wanted the alien, ma'am. You didn't say anything about one of our own."

Faora-Ul's eyes narrowed. "Shall I tell the general you are unwilling to comply?"

"I don't care what you tell him," Hardy snapped.

The woman's blood-red lips twitched. I had a feeling she wasn't used to people telling her to back off—and if she ever found herself in that situation, she wouldn't hesitate to assert herself. And if Clark, by himself, was capable of spearing logs through an eighteen-wheeler, what could this woman and her people do to Swanwick and Hardy with their men and tanks if I didn't obey?

"It's all right," I heard myself say as I stepped out from behind Colonel Hardy. "I'll go."

Faora-Ul turned her sly dark eyes on me and sized me up. I might as well have been standing before her completely naked; her gaze couldn't have been more intrusive or embarrassing.

"The woman has chosen well," she said smoothly, glancing at Swanwick again. "Be thankful she had more wits about her than you—or your subordinate."

She flicked her hand at me and turned on her heel. Hardy laid a hand on my arm but I shook my head and walked quickly after her. Strangely enough, my one thought was something along the lines of, _What in the world is my mom going to think of this?_

Unable to keep up with Faora's long, swift strides I reached Clark several seconds after she did. He stared at me like I'd lost my mind.

"I'm not letting you take her," he snapped, turning on Faora. "I'm the one you want. There's absolutely no need to bring an innocent woman into this."

Faora set her weight on one leg and cocked her head to the side. "The general has decided that question, son of El. If she is so important to _them _and to you, she is important to our mission."

"Which is?" Clark demanded.

She smirked. "To reclaim you. And as I and my crewmates were bred to kill without empathy or compassion, I do not think you wish us to decide the matter by force."

Clark was silent, and his eyes flew back to the troops behind the concrete barriers. Then, as if sensing that any sign of fear on his part would only unnerve me, he drew himself up and offered his hand to me. Once Faora started leading us to the ship, I squeezed his hand hard.

* * *

I'd seen enough science fictionmoviesto have a pretty good idea of what spaceships should look like. They should be clean and bright-looking inside, sleek and elegant on the outside. You should find yourself walking down well-lit and very wide corridors, preferably with a squad of stormtroopers behind you. If you wanted the full effect, that is.

Kryptonian ships were different. As soon as I entered the dropship I was struck by how dark it was. It certainly wasn't built for comfort; the décor was sharp and forbidding. It did remind me to a certain extent of the old ship in the Canadian glacier, but even that one had an elegance and a nobility to it.

Clark had told me less than an hour ago that Krypton's culture had decayed until it mirrored the planet's physical instability. Maybe the Kryptonians had lost all sense of beauty before they were all destroyed.

All of them, of course, except for General Zod, Faora-Ul, and anyone else on their mothership . . . and Clark Kent.

"Stay here," Faora ordered as the doors sealed behind us and we stood in a small, windowless boarding area. "And do not move. I will be flying the ship up there—" she pointed to a short staircase leading into the cockpit "—but I will know if you attempt to make any trouble. Kal-El, do I have your word you will remain here, quietly?"

"Of course," Clark said firmly.

She nodded, and with one nasty look in my direction, mounted the steps without so much as touching the stair rail. Clark followed her with his eyes, and when we saw her sit down in the pilot's chair with her back to us, he cautiously lifted a hand to his neck. For the first time, I realized he wore some kind of thin black cord around his neck that tucked into his suit. He pulled it out and I saw a small, slender object hanging from the cord.

"Take it," he whispered, slipping it into my hand with his eyes still on Faora.

I closed my fingers over it. Whatever it was, it was smooth and still warm from his body heat. "What is it?"

"Command key. Shh!"

"What's it for?"

Before Clark could answer the ship lurched and ascended so fast, I threw my hand out against the wall to keep myself from falling. The lights flickered. As the ascent leveled Clark took my hand and helped me regain my balance. I had clenched the key so hard, it left an imprint in my palm. I looked down and saw the same "S"-shaped symbol on his suit pressed into my skin.

I looked up at him questioningly, but he shook his head, lifted a finger to his lips. It was a good thing he'd given me the warning; Faora shot out of her seat and came down the stairs again with something tucked under her arm. I slammed the key into my pocket.

"The atmospheric composition on our ship is not compatabile with humans," she said, holding out a transparent respirator helmet. "You will need to wear a breather beyond this point."

Before I could react, she set the clear helmet on my head. It scared me; for all I knew it might give me poison gas rather than oxygen.

_Oh calm down, Lane, she said Zod thinks you're important—though why, I have absolutely no clue—so it's not like she's going to kill you before he can question you. Be rational about this. _

I took a deep breath. Clark watched me closely.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, nodding as well as I could in the helmet. "It's okay, it's oxygen."

Faora went back to the cockpit and piloted the ship towards the squid-like mothership, which, she informed us proudly, was called _Black Zero_. Through what I could see out of the cockpit window, I watched an airlock open in the huge ship's side, allowing the dropship entrance; a heavy clank of metal told me when the airlock had sealed again behind us.

Faora then returned to us and with the push of a button opened the door and lowered the black ramp. She walked down first; Clark motioned for me to follow her while he made the rear. Cold blue light shone down on us from a vaulted ceiling; six armored Kryptonians waited for us at the bottom of the ramp.

Just behind the soldiers stood a tall, thin, ghoulish-looking man in fine robes that, while much less colorful, looked like they were made of the same material as Clark's cape. He moved to Faora's side as soon as Clark and I stepped off the ramp.

"General Zod is waiting in the main cabin," he said. "He says to bring the prisoners to him _immediately_."

"As if _I_ didn't already believe that would be his request," Faora answered haughtily. "I do not need you to inform me of the general's intentions, Jax-Ur."

The man cut his eyes at Faora and his gaze landed on Clark. His lips curled in an ugly sneer.

"So _this_ is our freeborn," he said. "He will be an interesting study for the laboratory . . ."

"Leave him alone," Faora snapped. "You will have your turn with him shortly. You heard, Kal-El. The general awaits."

She jerked her hand for us to follow. I glanced at Clark. His jaw was set and he blinked hard, as if he was having trouble adjusting to the light.

"Are you all right?" I whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered back, reaching for my hand. His fingers laced with mine and squeezed.

We followed her out of the cargo bay and into a cramped corridor; Clark had to duck his head in order to get through, and with his broad frame in front and the armored soldiers behind me, I felt claustrophobic. I still clutched his hand and he gently rubbed his thumb over my skin.

When we finally emerged into another huge room, the first thing I noticed was an enormous window looking down upon Earth. The sight of my home planet from this height would've been delightful under any other circumstance, but my attention was quickly diverted by a tall, armored, but helmetless figure standing in front of the window. He turned towards us as we stepped into the room and I gulped.

_Zod. That's got to be him. _

He carried himself with far more dignity than even my father or General Swanwick could've mustered, making me wonder if there was more than simple military bearing to him . . . maybe noble upbringing. His short-cropped hair was flecked with grey and a long white scar ran from the corner of one eyebrow to the cheekbone below it. His eyes fixed on Clark without any hint of animosity. In fact, he seemed more curious than antagonistic.

"Kal-El," he said, stepping forward quickly with a small, stiff smile. I shuddered. There was something creepy about his voice. "You have no idea how long we've been searching for you."

Clark released my hand and stepped forward like he was ready to finally give himself up. Some of the color had gone out of his face. "I take it you're Zod?"

"_General _Zod," Faora hissed. "Show some respect, freeborn!"

"It's all right, Faora," Zod said in that unsettling monotone of his. "We can forgive Kal any lapses in decorum. He's a stranger to our ways, after all. This moment should be cause for celebration, not conflict."

I fought to urge to make some smart-aleck comment about blackmailing Earth for the sake of a celebration. The second use of the word "freeborn" in ten minutes, too, confused me. Whatever it meant, Faora despised Clark for it; that much was clear from the way she glared daggers at him.

Zod laid a hand on Clark's shoulder. Clark drew in a sharp breath and staggered as if Zod had just backhanded him.

"Are you well, Kal?" Zod asked coolly.

I rushed forward. Clark was white as a sheet and looked like he might start throwing up at any moment. It was his eyes that scared me, though. I'd seen that same disoriented look in Afghanistan, when wounded men were brought into the infirmary. It was like the soldiers didn't know where they were; one man I'd seen, his leg half-blown off, was unable to tell the medic his own name.

"Clark—" I said, but before I could touch him he stumbled, choked, and fell on his hands and knees, vomiting hard. Alarmed, I dropped on my knees beside him, trying to comfort him; Zod made way for me without any sign of concern. Clark lifted a hand to his mouth and drew it back smeared with blood.

"What's wrong with him?" I cried, turning on Zod. "What have you done?"

"His body is rejecting our ship's atmospherics," Zod said, looking at me for the first time with stern blue-grey eyes. "He spent a lifetime adapting to Earth's ecology but he never adapted to ours."

Clark tried to push himself up and failed, falling on his stomach with a grunt.

"For God's sake, help him!" I screamed.

"I can't," Zod replied coldly. "Whatever is happening to him has to run its course."

_And if it kills him? What then?! _

Clark groaned, dropped his head on the floor, and went limp. I started to panic. I grabbed his shoulder and pulled hard, rolled him over onto his back. I cupped his bloody face in my hands and bent over him. His eyes were closed.

"Stay with me, Clark," I hissed, patting his cheek. No response. He was deathly white under all that blood. I clenched my teeth and slapped him as hard as I could.

"_Wake up!_ Stay with me—don't you dare die on me, Clark Kent! Wake up!"

Two pairs of strong hands clamped on my shoulders. I gasped, tried to fight back, but Faora and another female Kryptonian were almost as strong as Clark and pinned my arms to my sides with very little effort. Four armored soldiers and Jax-Ur hovered over Clark; the scientist wore undisguised glee in his ghoulish face.

"You must be Lois Lane," Zod said as Faora and her companion jerked me towards him. "The woman who apparently knows more about Kal-El than most on your planet?"

I did my best to writhe against Faora's grasp, but she had a vice-like hold on me. Zod went on, his eyes slowly moving from my head to my feet and back again.

"You see, I've monitored Earth's reaction to my transmission last night, and a few hours ago your name came to my attention. Your own general informed me you were friends with my young countryman. Perhaps you could tell me what you know. Where he lived, how he grew up . . . what he is capable of."

I heard footsteps walking away and something heavy dragging across the floor. I tried to look over my shoulder, but Faora squeezed my elbow so tightly I gasped.

"Answer the general, human," she hissed in my ear.

I gritted my teeth and jerked my elbows back as hard as I could. It caught Faora's companion off guard and she lost her hold on me; Faora, however, wrenched my arm behind my back until I screamed and crumpled, moaning, to my knees. Zod looked down at me with hardly any emotion in his eyes except, maybe, a hint of distaste.

"She _is_ a defiant one," he said, meeting Faora's seething eyes. "Very well, Sub-Commander. Do what is necessary."

"Yes, General," Faora said, yanking me to my feet so hard, my shoulder popped. "Car-Vex!"

Her subordinate, irritated that I'd bested her for even a short moment, grabbed my other arm again. They whirled me around and started dragging me out of the enormous room. I glanced around feverishly. Clark was gone; so were his captors. The bloodstains on the grey floor were the only evidences he'd been here.


	13. My Deepest Self

It wasn't like I could make any real resistance to Faora and Car-Vex; they were both taller and stronger than me. But I _could_ make myself the biggest pain in the behind. I wriggled and writhed, and at one point I even dug my heels in and bent over double, forcing the two women to stop. Faora snapped something in her own language to Car-Vex, grabbed me by both my shoulders, and slammed me against the wall.

I thought she was going to bash my head in, but instead she pressed a button on my respirator; it immediately folded into its heavy collar around my neck. The heavy air that had affected Clark now made my lungs burn. I gasped and coughed, and before I could catch my breath Faora slapped me across the face. I cried out in pain; she struck me even harder on the other cheek.

"Now," she hissed, jerking me away from the wall, "you will walk quietly, or I will leave this breather off your head and you can choke yourself to death. Do I make myself clear?"

I could only nod, desperate to get the respirator back. She slammed it back on and I gulped in the oxygen.

They finally got me into another chamber with two oval-shaped doors; I was hastily escorted through the door on the right, leaving me to wonder what was going on behind the other one. On the other side of this door, at least, was a windowless room with a metal table, a row of cabinets on the walls, and a small countertop underneath the cabinets. It reminded me of an examining room in a doctor's office.

Faora and Car-Vex forced me onto my back on the table. As Car-Vex fastened metal restraints on my wrists and ankles, I realized my breath was coming in hard, short gasps. _Calm down, Lois, calm down, breathe, don't let them see you afraid . . . _

Faora stood at the countertop, drawing amber liquid from a glass bottle into a long syringe. The needle glistened in the pale light.

"Did Jax-Ur give you the human dosage?" Car-Vex asked.

"He did," Faora replied, setting the bottle back into one of the cabinets. "She would go mad if we gave her the dosage he will have to give Kal-El."

She approached me again and Car-Vex rolled up my sleeve above my elbow. I squeezed my eyes shut. If they were going to kill me, I didn't want to watch.

_ I am a soldier's daughter, I am brave, I can face any death as courageously as Clark did . . . _

Faora slipped the needle into the vein in my elbow and pushed down on the syringe. Burning pain spread through my arm and I drew in a shuddering gasp. My vision blurred; I saw Faora fold her arms over her chest and then everything went black.

* * *

The soft hum of Metropolis in the morning and the smell of brewing coffee woke me and I forced my eyes open with a groan. I was in my flat, on the living room couch. _Must've dozed off working on tomorrow's article—_

I bolted upright with a gasp. Perched on the coffee table with her legs crossed and her dark eyes narrowed was Faora-Ul. Her armor was gone and she sat there in a skin-tight black suit, similar to Clark's but without a cape. She smirked at my reaction.

"So this is your dwelling?" she queried, her accented voice low and mocking.

I pushed my disheveled hair out of my face and looked down at myself. I was in a t-shirt and a pair of black exercise pants. Summer pajamas. I hastily crossed my arms over my chest, embarrassed.

"How did I get back here?" I demanded.

"You are not really here. This is just a simulation. You entered it when I injected the serum into your arm."

"Oh." _So it wasn't a lethal injection after all. I'm just dreaming. _

At first glance my living room looked pretty normal; a second glance made me suspicious. All the colors were dull, lifeless; the couch was grey rather than blue, my pink t-shirt was actually rather dingy, the coffee table was a dirty brown rather than mahogany. The only thing that stood out was the bulletin board on one wall, and to my surprise Clark's pictures and the investigation notes were tacked on it again. Those things had color. It was like they were the only real things in the room.

"So . . . so this is just a dream," I said, scooting away from Faora.

"More or less," she replied coolly. "The simulation centers your mind in the one place where you are free to be your deepest self. I have the ability to read that deepest self: your loves, your zones of comfort and safety . . . and your worst fears."

She glanced at something above my head; I turned, but saw nothing. She raised an eyebrow.

"Kal-El's deepest self is not the same stoic, lordly man I took into custody, according to his readings. Nor are you always the poised female you were in the company of your own people, are you? Masters of deception, indeed."

The taunting in her voice was unmistakable; I set my teeth together to keep back an angry retort. She rose and walked, hands clasped behind her back, to the bulletin board. My heart started pounding when she pointed at Clark's pictures.

"Kal-El." The name rolled like chocolate off her tongue. "You know much about him."

_She wants me to talk. That's why she put me in this simulation: she wants me all comfortable and cozy so I'll spill the beans. Fat chance._

Before I could say any of this out loud, Faora moved faster than a snake. She grabbed my hair and jerked my head back; I cried out and tried to get away, but she held my hair so tightly I was scared she might pull it out by the roots.

"Look at me!" she ordered.

I tried to resist, but something forced me to look up. She stared into my eyes as a painful ache spread through my head. It was almost like she had her fingers in my brain, rifling through files and folders, searching for information.

_She said she could read me. She wants to know what I . . . oh no, no, no, stop!_

Panicking, I tried to think about anything in the world other than Clark Kent—and instead he was all I could think about. I couldn't look away from Faora; I couldn't even blink. All the stories I'd uncovered, all of Clark's pseudonyms, all the astounding character qualities I'd come to admire—even, I feared, my unusually strong feelings for him—Faora read it all like a book.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, she thrust me away from her. I fell against the back of the couch, gasping and holding a hand to my head. Faora stared down at me with amused contempt.

"You met him on a cold island and he saved your life. After a painstaking search you found him again in the very city where he landed as an infant. You even met the sniveling woman he calls 'mother.' And then you talked with him. He told you about his childhood, his fears, his pathetic compassion for these people of yours whom he has adopted. And you would not tell a soul about this Kryptonian who calls himself by the name of 'Clark Kent,' because you believed your honor demanded it."

"You don't know anything about honor," I snapped, getting to my feet with an effort. "I made a promise and by Heaven I'll keep that promise even if I have to kill you—"

Faora cut me off. "Hundreds of years ago Krypton instituted genetic engineering. The Council believed our race would last much longer if certain feelings were eliminated from society. I, for example, cannot feel compassion. I am a stronger person and a better soldier for it."

"You're a heartless _monster_, that's what you are!" I shouted.

"And _you_ are a weakling human who has succumbed to what is called 'love' for a Kryptonian man—a feeling that was eliminated from most of our race at the very first."

My mouth fell open. _Love? I love Clark Kent?_

"His mother and father conceived him in the old, illegal way—like animals." Faora sneered at me. "Kal-El is a disgrace upon our nation, and yet even he would not stoop to _your_ level. You are a worm and worse than a worm in comparison to him, and you are a fool if you think he considers you as anything more than that."

There was no controlling myself after an insult like that, and I lunged at her in a wild rage. Immediately she disappeared and a dry, scorching wind hit me full in the face. I blinked. My flat was gone, replaced by a wasted plain that looked like the Ground Zero of a nuclear bomb. The red sun was abnormally large and there was a rancid smell that reminded me of something dead. My limbs felt heavy as lead; it was hard to breathe.

"Lois?" a familiar voice called. I whirled and let out a cry of relief. There was Clark, still in his suit with the long cape billowing in the harsh breeze. He swayed a little, but I couldn't tell if it was because he was still weak or because the ground was unstable beneath his feet and he was trying to keep his balance. He held out his hands to me.

"Hurry, Lois!" he called. "You've got to hurry!"

I stepped forward and something rolled and gave way underneath my bare feet. I looked down and screamed in terror.

"_Skulls!_"

"Lois, quick!" Clark begged.

The ground was covered in the skulls, and as if it wasn't already hard enough to run, the abnormal gravity dragged me down. I stumbled and grabbed desperately for Clark's hand; he seized my arm and pulled me up against him, pressing my head against the curving emblem on his chest. My arms flew around his waist.

"What happened?" I whispered, gasping for breath. "What did he do?"

"He's not going to let Earth go unscathed, Lois. You can't appease a tyrant. You never can."

Clark tilted my head back, still keeping one arm tightly around me, and stroked my hair back from my face. I closed my eyes at his touch. He certainly didn't treat me like I was worthless. Even when we first met, he'd treated me like I was something to be respected and cherished.

Faora was wrong. I wasn't a worm and Clark didn't think I was inferior to him. He wouldn't have saved my life and sacrificed himself for Earth if he felt that way.

"Lois," he murmured, "you know they're not going to let me live."

"Don't talk like that!" I hissed. "I'm going to save you. But you've got to promise me you'll fight them until I can get to you, Clark, please. You _have_ to live!"

He gazed deep into my eyes as I spoke, running his strong fingers through my hair, and before I could say anything else he cupped a hand on the back of my head, bent forward, and kissed me like it was something he—and I—had wanted to do for a long time. But there was something final about it, too . . . like he knew he'd never be able to kiss me again and wanted to treasure the moment.

He pulled back far enough to look at me. The hand on my neck moved to cup my cheek and he made sure I was looking him in the eye.

"I love you, Lois," he whispered. "_I love you_."

A hand clamped on my shoulder and jerked me backwards; I blinked, and Zod and the creepy scientist appeared like magic behind Clark. They both laid hands on his shoulders. Clark set his jaw and fixed his eyes steadily on me.

"Don't be afraid," he said, still calm as ever. "It's going to be all right, you'll be okay."

"I know," I whispered. "I love you, Clark."

Faora yanked me out of his arms and dragged me several feet away. The scientist grabbed a handful of Clark's dark curls, forcing him to his knees, and pulled a small, thin knife from his belt.

"No!" I cried, writhing, kicking, clawing. One of Faora's arms locked around my waist; the other pinned my arms to my sides. The scientist set the slender knife's edge against Clark's throat. He smiled evilly; Zod stared down at his victim without any emotion whatsoever. Clark looked at the sky, unafraid.

The scientist made one swift, deep slice and I let out a blood-curdling scream. Clark slumped forward. Faora jerked me around and shook me until my teeth rattled.

"_Silence!_" she shrieked. "By rights he is a Lord of Krypton and you are a _human_, a worthless _human!_ By the gods, he _should_ be executed for even thinking our race worthy of such a union!"

She threw me to the hideous ground and I buried my face in my hands, crying like my whole world had come to an end.

* * *

My eyes flew open and I bolted upright. Or at least, I tried to. The metal restraints on my wrists and ankles kept me down on the table and I was forced to lie back again and stare up into Car-Vex's shocked face and Faora's murderous eyes.

"Get her up," Faora snapped. Car-Vex immediately unlocked the restraints and made me sit up. My heart was still racing and I gasped like I'd been crying, though my eyes and cheeks felt dry; I pressed a hand to my chest, tried to catch my breath.

"Kal-El's reading is over as well," Faora muttered, glancing at a computer monitor over my head. "Move her into a cell and see to it their paths do _not_ cross."

Then she jabbed a finger against my transparent respirator; I jerked my head back, startled.

"You—are—pathetic," she hissed. "Both of you. I have waited for his death since the moment I learned of his birth and I should not be sorry to see you share his fate—"

Before she could continue, I grabbed her wrist. She was so shocked, she just stood there and stared at me, her lips parted and her dark eyes wider than I'd ever seen them.

"If you so much as lay a finger on _him_, Miss Faora," I hissed, "I'll break your neck."

Faora turned white. I guessed she'd never been called "Miss" before, and probably no one had ever threatened to break her neck—but if she thought love made a human weak she had another thing coming. A human could be downright feisty and contemptuous of her enemy when she was in love.

She jerked her hand away and I braced myself for the blow. Instead she drew herself up and marched out, her head high; Car-Vex grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room but in a different direction.

I didn't fight her this time. She pushed a button in the middle of a corridor and a door lifted into the ceiling, opening up another small room. This one, however, was dimly-lit and completely empty. She gave me a hard push; my foot caught on the threshhold and I crashed against the hard black wall. Without a word she stepped out and the door slammed down behind her.

I pushed myself up, rubbing a new sore spot on my elbow. The cell was cold and before a few minutes had passed I was shivering. A quick inspection of the door killed any hopes of escape. There weren't any keyholes or buttons. This room was made to be a prison.

I stepped away from the door with a groan. _Okay Lane, think, think. _I ran my fingers along the smooth black walls, trying to come up with a plan and failing miserably. The only way I was getting out of here was if someone opened that door from the other side—and if someone did come, it would be another unfriendly interrogator. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since early this morning. I wondered, vaguely curious, what Kryptonians ate.

_Hang on, Clark, I'm going to find you. _

I pressed my back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to recall the simulation. Maybe there was something that Faora had said or done that would give me an idea of what to do next. She knew everything I knew about Clark and she knew I loved him.

In spite of myself, a shiver of pleasure raced up my spine. _I love him_. It was both an exciting and terrifying thought—exciting because I'd never really been in love before—but terrifying because if I knew I would've taken that knife to save Clark if Faora hadn't manhandled me the way she did.

_And now I'm wondering if the dream showed his deepest self, just like it showed Faora mine. _

My eyes flew open. Clark kissed me in the dream and told me he loved me. It flew in the face of what Faora told me earlier in the simulation. According to her, Kal-El would never, ever fall in love with a human—and if he _did_, it would be an appalling shame upon the Kryptonian race, worse, apparently, than what his parents did in conceiving him without the genetic engineering Faora thought so highly of.

Well, I didn't give a diddly-squat about the Kryptonian race. If Clark's behavior in that dream was any indication, he didn't care, either. And it had scared Faora. She wouldn't have been so angry if it hadn't scared her out of her mind.

I clenched my hands and stepped into the center of the room, emboldened by the thought. As I did so, something caught my eye . . . something blue and glowing on the other side of the room.

Curious, I approached it, surprised I hadn't noticed it before. It was a portal set in the wall, with an empty, five-sided slot in its center. I stared at it for a moment, bewildered—and then recognized the shape.

My hand flew to my pocket—_please tell me they didn't search me while I was on that table_—and my fingers closed over the long, slender object Clark had passed to me aboard Faora's dropship. I pulled it out and knelt in front of the port so the blue light could illuminate the key and the "S"-shaped symbol engraved on its head.

_Clark gave it to me for a reason . . . he acted like I might need it. _I ran my finger over the symbol thoughtfully. _What do I have to lose?_

I stood up again and fitted the key into the port. It slipped in perfectly, then seemed to hit a spring or something, as if it needed one final push. I pressed the head of the key with my fingertip and the key locked in place with a gentle whooshing sound.

I held my breath, half-expecting the door to fly open. Nothing happened. I tried to swallow down my disappointment and turned, about to lean against the wall again and sink to a seat on the floor—and promptly yelped in terror.

Standing just behind me was a tall man in silver-blue robes, his dark hair flecked with grey and his bearded face stern, staring intently at me beneath a furrowed brow. Thinking fast, I planted myself in front of the port and slammed my hand over Clark's key.

"Where did you come from?" I demanded.

"The command key, Miss Lane," the man said, and I jumped. His voice was quiet, calm, and strangely gentle—and he knew my name, even addressed me as "Miss." None of the people on this ship had done _that_ yet. "Thanks to you, I'm uploading into the ship's mainframe."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who are you?"

His eyes softened. "I am Kal's father."

My mouth fell open. Clark told me in the interrogation room that he'd spoken with his father. _"It was just a recording of him, I don't know how it worked . . . but I lived with him for a month on that ship." _Seeing my shock, the man drew back his shimmering robes and I saw he wore a skinsuit underneath, bearing the same curving symbol that was on Clark's suit and the command key.

"You recognize this?" he asked gently.

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"It is the symbol of the House of El, of which I am a member." He closed his robes again and looked intently at me. "My name is Jor-El. The command key allows my preserved consciousness to take charge of any ship I designed. Since I designed this ship, the one you and Kal found on Ellesmere, and the ship he traveled in as an infant, I am their true captain."

"Okay," I said, glancing nervously at the sealed door. "Clar—I mean, Kal—he's captured—and I'm pretty sure Zod is going to attack Earth—"

"I know," Jor-El said gently. "And I can help you both. I can modify this ship's composition to human compatability, which will allow him to regain his strength—and I know how to stop Zod and his army. But I need _you _to help me. Are you willing?"

Without hesitation, I nodded firmly. It didn't matter to me if this guy was nothing more than a hologram; there was something about his voice and bearing that made me trust him.

"I'll do anything to help him," I whispered. "Just point me in the right direction."

His eyes softened. He raised his hand, his eyes on the port behind me; a holographic display rose up from the port and I guessed he was about to give me a demonstration.

"Step a little closer, Miss Lane, and I will tell you all you need to know," he said.

I looked at him again. "Can I ask you one question before we start?"

"Of course."

It seemed like a silly question right now, but I pushed aside my embarrassment and asked it anyway. "How do you know my name?"

"Kal told me about you. You are the woman he saved aboard the scout ship."

I nodded, felt my face redden with embarrassment and pleasure. "Yes, sir."

"He thinks well of you," he said. Then, as I stood beside him in front of the port feeling ready for anything, he glanced at me again, this time with a gentle smile.

"Thank you for believing in my son, Miss Lane," he said. "He has chosen well indeed."

* * *

**When I first wrote that mind-reading scene, I was so emotionally exhausted I couldn't really write anything else for the rest of that day. I will never kill off Clark for real. Doing it in a dream was bad enough. (*shudder*)**

**Also: I _do_ plan on finishing _Changed For Good _as soon as this story is complete! I've gotten several reviews for it this past week that have made me remember how much fun that story was...so I may just tell that nasty little hypercritical voice in my head to shut up and let me enjoy the last few chapters, flaws or no flaws.**


	14. Escape

"The shuttle Kal's mother and I put him in for his voyage to Earth was powered by what is known as a Phantom Drive," Jor-El began.

I leaned forward as a vivid scene took shape on the holographic display: two figures, a man and a woman, gazing up at a small round spacecraft rising from what looked like a launch pad in the center of a room. The spacecraft, I noticed, bore the curving symbol of the House of El.

_"It's not an 'S.' On my world, it stands for 'hope.' "_

"The Phantom Drive allows transportation between parallel universes and timelines," Jor-El went on. "Krypton was on a separate dimension than Earth. In order to get my son safely away from its destruction I knew he would have to pass through the Phantom Zone, the intermediate state between universes."

"The Phantom Zone?" I repeated, tearing my eyes away from the sad scene on the hologram.

"It is a desolate dimension of space, devoid of life. For my murder and his attempted coup, Zod and his accomplices were sentenced to a centuries-long imprisonment in the Zone. But Krypton's implosion caused damage to this ship's Phantom Drive, releasing Zod and his friends from their cryostasis containment."

"And Clark?" I blurted, caught myself. "I mean, Kal . . ."

"No need to apologize, Miss Lane," he said kindly. "You know him as 'Clark.' You may call him so, even in my presence."

I smiled my gratitude. "So how does Clark's baby shuttle come into this?"

Jor-El waved his hand and a new image came on the screen. I gasped in surprise. The small farmhouse with the pickup parked in front was undeniably Martha Kent's.

"My son told me his adoptive parents kept the ship. It was damaged when it crashed to Earth, but its Phantom Drive is still operable and can be activated by the command key Kal gave you. When the drive is working, anything that touches it at the moment of its connection with the Zone will be drawn into a black hole. You and Kal must see to it that the shuttle and the _Black __Zero _collide at the moment the Phantom Zone opens to receive the smaller ship. If all goes well, it will take both ships, General Zod, and all his soldiers along with it."

"Right," I said with a sharp nod, wondering how on earth we'd ever get that kind of collision to happen. "Crash the shuttle into the _Black Zero_. Use the command key to activate the Phantom Drive and let both ships get sucked into the Phantom Zone. I've got it."

"Not quite, Miss Lane," Jor-El said softly. "Unless you and Kal want to be drawn into the Zone as well, you must make sure you are at a safe distance when space bends and the hole opens. It will be especially dangerous for Kal. He was exposed to the Zone's energy as an infant. He absorbed it as easily as he did the radiation of your young sun, and it will try to pull him back into itself like a magnet if he is not far enough away."

I swallowed, quickly dismissing the rather hair-brained idea that Clark could just throw his baby ship at the _Black Zero _and be done with it.

"There _will _be a battle," Jor-El added. "Zod will try to turn your world into Krypton. He will begin the transformation once he realizes he can harness the gift my son possesses."

"Which is?" I asked.

Jor-El turned from the port and fixed his deep blue eyes on me. "Kal carries the genetic code of our entire race in his body. I infused it into him before I sent him away, both to preserve it and to keep Zod from gaining possession of it to create a stronger, crueler generation of Kryptonians. Zod will soon learn of this. His scientist friend is conducting experiments on Kal and will soon discover traces of the Codex."

I cleared my throat nervously. "So Zod will have to kill Clark in order to get this . . . this code?"

"And prepare Earth to receive thousands of new Kryptonians—yes." Jor-El shook his head, obviously disgusted by the idea. "The general had best prepare enough respirators like the one you wear now. He'll have to leave enough humans alive long enough to nurse the new children. But now—we can't afford to lose anymore time. Jax-Ur has drawn a blood sample from Kal. We have to free him before they discover where the Codex really is."

Jor-El touched the screen with his finger; for a few moments he read several lines of code I didn't understand and selected a few commands. Then the screen blinked and disappeared; the lights went dark in the cell and I heard emergency sirens going off.

Jor-El pointed at my respirator. "The air is safe for you to breathe. Kal's strength will return to him quickly now."

My fingers fumbled for the button Faora pressed when she slapped me; I pushed it and the respirator dissolved. I took a gulping breath of cold but fresh, light air.

"The ship's crew are alerted," he said, glancing around as the sirens grew louder. "Retrieve the command key and keep it safely hidden."

I reached for the port and pushed down on the key's head; immediately it sprang out of its lock and I snatched it up, slipped it back into my pocket. Jor-El raised his hand and the door whooshed open. He motioned for me to move out ahead of him. I raced into the dark corridor, past blinking lights and trying to ignore the ship's nerve-wrecking tremors.

Heavy footsteps echoed further up the hall. I turned my head and saw Car-Vex running at me, the barrel of her gun aimed at my head.

Before I could do anything but stand there open-mouthed like an idiot, a door slammed down from the ceiling in front of Car-Vex. I whirled and saw Jor-El lower his hand, his eyes glinting.

"Did you do that?" I breathed.

"Yes," he said, as calmly as if I'd just asked him if he was having a nice day. "Pick up her sidearm."

In her haste to avoid being crushed by the door, Car-Vex had dropped the gun. I grabbed it and turned it over in my hands, interested.

"Do you know how to use a weapon?" he asked, leading me further down the corridor at a swift pace.

"Oh yeah," I said, cocking the gun easily. "My father was a general. He taught me how to shoot a gun before I was six years ol—"

"To your right," he snapped. I whirled, saw another soldier barrelling towards us from a side hall. I gripped the gun with both hands and fired. To my surprise, a blast of white plasma rather than a bullet hit the man square in the chest; he slammed to the floor, dead as a doornail.

"Behind you!" Jor-El called.

I turned on my heel and pulled the trigger, hitting another Kryptonian in the head. Three more armored men followed him with their guns raised, but Jor-El clenched his fist and another door sealed them out before they could fire at me.

"This way, quickly," he said, as if I needed any encouragement to hurry. I tried to smother the harrowing thought that I'd just killed two men, reminding myself it had been in complete self-defense. Besides, if Jor-El was right, we were about to be in a full-blown war. These were simply the first shots fired.

He motioned for me to pass ahead of him into yet another cavity in these winding halls. This room was lined with cone-shaped pods, and at a quick nod from him I sat down inside the one closest to me.

"Safe travels, Miss Lane," Jor-El said, standing in front of the pod door. "Buckle yourself and I will see to it you land in Kansas. Remember all my instructions . . . and watch after Kal."

"Yes, sir, I will," I said, buckling myself in. "You have my word on _that_."

He smiled, but only briefly; his eyes narrowed. "Turn your head to the left."

I cocked my head, puzzled—and then Jor-El's lifelike hologram disintegrated before my eyes as Car-Vex's arm pummeled through his head. I screamed and jerked my whole body to the left; her fist slammed into the wall of the escape pod mere inches from my head. I grabbed my alien gun and tried to aim, but she grabbed its barrel and yanked it out of my hand; strapped in, I was unable to fight her for it and held my breath as she turned the gun on me and fired point-blank.

The plasma never hit me. The pod's hatch slammed shut and took the blast, and before Car-Vex could aim again the pod plummeted down what felt like a well-greased tube. I gripped the arms of the seat with both hands until the whole feel of the pod changed and I saw nothing but stars, the _Black Zero_, and the blue-green Earth through the heat shield.

I leaned forward, trying to get a view of Earth from this vantage point, but the pod's spinning and cartwheeling made me nauseated. It reminded me of a time when, as a kid, my dad dared me to go on a roller coaster with him. He enjoyed it, but I kept my eyes and mouth shut, sickened by the speed and the height. Trying to trust Jor-El—_"I will see to it you land in Kansas"_—I leaned my head against the back of the seat and shut my eyes.

The ride became even more turbulent and the temperature in the pod rose steadily. _I'm going through the atmosphere . . . stay calm, Lois, just stay calm, you've got a heat shield _. . . I opened my eyes and saw, to my horror, a jagged white crack across the square window.

_She hit it—she hit it with that gun!_

I sat upright and pressed my hands against the walls of the ship, trying to steady myself—but promptly screamed and jerked my burned palms back. The seat was getting hot. There was no way I could unbuckle myself and stand up. Sweat dripped off my face and I gritted my teeth; my whole body tingled with pain, like I'd spent hours and hours on a beach and gotten the worst sunburn of my life.

The blinding light changed and yielded to wispy clouds; the heat subsided but the pod fell even faster. I felt consciousness start to slip away. _I'm going into shock . . . my body can't take the pressure and this thing isn't slowing down . . . _

_ I'm going to crash. I'm going to die._

I shut my eyes again, trying to think about anything other than crashing. Strangely enough, the first person to come to mind was my mom, but there were too many unpleasant ideas associated with her and I thought rather bitterly that she'd be more distressed by the fact that she wouldn't be able to hold an elaborate open-casket funeral than by my actual death.

_That's not charitable, Lois, of course she'll be devastated. You know Perry will be. And Clark . . . _

Hearing something hit the pod, I instinctively opened my eyes and let out a sharp cry—or at least, I tried to cry out; my voice was dry and hoarse. I leaned forward again and slammed my palms against the cooling window, the only thing that separated me from Clark Kent.

He was on his hands and knees on top of the pod and seemed to be digging his fingers into the black, twisted metal of the hatch. He looked at me through the foggy window, unmistakable fear and determination in his hard blue eyes.

"Get back!" he shouted.

I threw myself back and he pulled hard. I heard a loud groan of metal; the hatch flew off and I was sucked forward by the rushing wind. Clark reached in, grabbed my arms, and jerked me forward so hard, it tore the seatbelt around my waist. I crashed against him and his arms wrapped tightly around me.

A split second later, the pod hit the ground with a deafening explosion. Clark flipped onto his back, shielding me with his body, and holding onto me with one arm he thrust his other arm towards the sky and shot away from the black plume of smoke. I clung to him, gasping in terror. My arms were locked so tight around him it was hurting _me_.

"It's okay, it's okay!" he shouted frantically over the rushing wind. "What are you anyway, an anaconda?"

I lifted my head and saw him smiling. I stared at him, open-mouthed. The last time I saw him he looked like death warmed over, he'd just saved my life—and now he was _teasing _me?!

"No need to hold onto me so tight," he assured me kindly, gliding into a vertical position and hooking one arm beneath my legs so he could cradle me. "Look."

I glanced down and saw the pod—or what remained of the pod—engulfed in flames hundreds of feet below us. I whimpered and hid my face in his shoulder. A cool, soft wind brushed over my hair as he moved forward in the sky.

"You—you didn't tell me you could fly," I whispered.

"Well, now you know," he answered gently. "Lie back and catch your breath. You're shaking like a leaf."

I nodded meekly and closed my eyes. After the adrenaline rush of the past few minutes, I was exhausted; my limbs felt like lead and my head ached. Clark flew in silence for a few minutes before making his descent, and when I looked down I saw we were about to land in the middle of a cornfield. His foot hit the ground with nary a bump and I drew in a breath of fresh, early-autumn air.

_Home sweet Earth. _

Clark carefully set me on my feet; I swayed and clung to him, dropping my spinning head in his shoulder. To my relief—and vague, tired delight—he kept his arms tightly around my waist.

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "You look like you've been sunburned."

I brought a hand to my face and neck; my hot skin stung to the touch. My hands and forearms were red, too. "It—it got pretty hot in that escape pod. I'll be okay, though . . ."

"What happened to your face?"

I stared at him, alarmed. "What's wrong with it?"

"You've got a purple bruise on one cheek."

He cupped my neck in one hand and stroked the sore spot with his thumb. I felt my face turn a deeper shade of red and hastily looked away.

"Faora slapped me, that's all."

His eyes flashed with indignantion. It reminded me of the time he reprimanded that worker on Ellesmere, Chuck, for hitting on me. I pulled his hand from my face and changed the subject.

"Are _you_ all right?" I whispered.

He drew a breath and looked at the sky. "I'm better. And I'll keep getting better the longer I stand here in the sun."

"I thought you were dead."

"No . . . thanks to you, I'm very much alive." He smiled gently. "I saw my father. He told me you helped him change the _Black Zero_'s atmospherics. Good job."

I swallowed hard. "You won't think I'm so great when you find out what else happened."

"Like . . . ?"

I forced myself to look him in the eye. "I didn't want to tell Faora anything about you, but she read my mind and learned everything. Where you grew up, where you've lived, the ship on Ellesmere, _all _of it. I'm so, so sorry, Clark . . ."

"Hey, hey," he soothed. "It's all right. Zod did the same thing to me. It's not your fault at all."

I let out a shuddering sigh of relief and nodded. His smile softened and he lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—but then his hand froze against my cheek. His eyes darted over my shoulder, seeing—or hearing—something I couldn't.

"What is it?" I demanded, startled. "What's wrong?"

"My mom," he whispered. "They know about my mom . . ."

His arms flew from around my waist and he whirled, looked down the road. For a moment he seemed to struggle with indecision; then he turned to me again and took me by the shoulders.

"Listen to me. There's a police car coming, I can hear it. You hitch a ride with the officer and go straight to my mom's farm. If they haven't gotten to her already I may need your help getting her out of town before they attack Smallville."

"Attack Smallville!"

"There's something Zod wants from me and he'll be coming to look for it. And if they think my mom has it . . ."

The thought struck new terror in him and he tore himself away from me. I grabbed his arm.

"Clark, listen—"

"No, I have to go _now_. Do exactly what I told you and hurry!"

"Clark!" I screamed, but it was too late—he was gone, a blue and red streak in the sky.

I hadn't heard the police car when he first mentioned it, but now I did. I turned just as the car with its wailing siren slowed and a short, lean officer threw open the door. He stared at Clark's disappearing figure and snatched his cap off his head.

"Wow . . ." he breathed.

"Are you with the Smallville police?" I asked.

He looked at me like it was the first time he'd even noticed I was there. Bewilderment and then alarm swept over his face. "Ma'am, are you . . . are you all right?"

I was irritated by such a stupid question until I remembered Clark's reaction when he got his first good look at me. I glanced down. My clothes were rumpled and soaked with sweat and the soles of my black work shoes had almost melted away. Most of my ponytail had fallen out, leaving my hair straggling around my face; add to that the "sunburn" on my face and arms and the throbbing bruise on my cheek, and I must've looked like I'd just been through the wringer.

"Yeah, of course I'm all right," I said, trying to look like I wasn't at all fazed by whatever I'd just experienced. "Do you know where the Kent farm is located?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Umm, yeah . . ."

"I need you to take me there. The name is Lois Lane. I'm with the_ Daily Planet_ . . ." I paused, decided to play what was probably my best card. "And I'm with Kal-El."

The officer glanced at the sky and nodded slowly. "Yeah . . . yeah, that's what they're saying on the news. Except you were supposed to be on that alien ship."

"Well we're not now," I said brusquely, moving to the passenger side of the car. "Let's go. I'll explain what I can on the way."

* * *

"So . . . so if Zod wanted Kal-El, and if Kal-El gave himself up to save Earth . . . why did he run away and come back here?" Officer Brady asked.

I'd told him everything I thought he needed to know—which hadn't been much. Up till this point I'd been able to speak with clipped professionalism. At his question, however, I felt a sudden vehemence rise up in me.

"Zod's not the kind of guy who'll back off once you appease him. You give him an inch and he'll take a mile. Capturing Kal-El was like Hitler taking the Rhineland. It was just the first step in a bigger plan."

Brady's eyes darted nervously from the road to me. "Then you're telling me Zod wants to take over Earth?"

"Exactly." I remembered Jor-El's words. "He's wants to turn Earth into Krypton. I don't know how—I just know he's going to try."

Brady nodded. "Well, you should probably know that we've gotten word from NORTHCOM that the _Black Zero _sent two smaller ships into Kansas airspace."

My stomach flip-flopped. "When did that happen?"

"About ten minutes ago." His jaw clenched. "There were reports they flew over Smallville."

"Oh no," I whispered. _Dear God, please let Clark get to his mother in time . . . _

"Looks like the town is okay, though," he said, turning a corner. I immediately recognized this road: it was Main Street, and there were all the old shops and establishments I'd passed when I first came to Smallville a few weeks ago. I noticed, however, that the people walking down the sidewalks looked nervous, and several of them cast anxious looks at the sky. They must've seen the alien ships pass over. I had no doubt they were on their way to the Kent farm.

"What are the reports on the main ship's activi—"

"Good grief!" Brady cried, slamming on the brakes as a nearby gas station burst into orange flame. The police car trembled with the explosion. Black smoke filled the street ahead of us; people shrieked and ducked behind their cars or ran into the stores.

"What happened?" I shouted.

Brady set his jaw and unbuckled. "You stay here, ma'am," he snapped as he got out and shut the door behind him, but like a disobedient, curious kid I followed him. The air smelled like burning gasoline and except for the roar of flames and the distant screams of frightened citizens, there was an eery quiet around the gas station.

Until a flicker of movement caught my eye and I saw a man in a blue suit and long, red cape stagger to his feet on the other side of the street. I opened my mouth to shout to him; Brady's hand clamped on my arm.

"Get back," he whispered. "Get back _reeeeeeeel_ slow-like . . ."

I was about to argue when I saw what he was staring at. Clark was on my right, oblivious to me; to my left, on his knees in the middle of the street, was Zod. The general held his head in his hands and writhed in pain. Clark, breathing hard, approached him slowly with a look of sheer rage in his young, handsome face.

A loud, throbbing hum made both Brady and I turn and look at the sky. Faora's black dropship hovered above us. I whirled, looked back at Clark, and for a split second his eyes left the coming ship and landed on me.

His eyes widened and his lips parted as if he was about to call something to me. A beam of plasma from the ship's side cannon cut him off. I screamed in horror as it hit the curving symbol on his chest; he flew back and landed, half-lying, half-sitting, against a pickup's back wheel.

"Back to the car, Miss Lane—now!" Brady shouted, dragging me with him. I had no choice in the matter. Brady opened the passenger door and all but shoved me in; then he was sitting beside me and backing up the car as fast as he could. The dropship's ramp lowered and I saw a lithe, familiar form in black armor spring to the pavement, followed by a huge hulk of a Kryptonian who had to be at least nine feet tall. A regular Goliath.

"Don't even try to tell me you want to stay and watch _that_," Brady snapped, wheeling the car into a side street and taking off at a speed that scared me. "I'll have you know, I read _The Daily Planet_, even out here in the sticks some of us know who Lois Lane is—and I ain't staying in the middle of an alien battle just so _you_ can get your story!"

"I wasn't going to ask you to," I snapped back. I heard that plasma cannon fire again and felt sick.

"I'll take you another route to the Kent place," Brady said, in a somewhat gentler tone. "It'll add another ten minutes or so to the ride but we won't have to go through Smallville proper."

"Okay," I whispered.

He gave me a quick, hard look. "You sure?"

I nodded and turned my face away. I knew I wasn't doing well hiding my emotions, and this man lived here in Smallville; I didn't want him to guess from my facial expression the havoc Zod and his army could wreak on this innocent little town.

And I certainly didn't want him to know how worried I was that the plasma blast had killed Clark Kent.


	15. Interlude

Several minutes later I finally dared to look over my shoulder. Plumes of smoke rose up from the direction of Smallville.

"We're almost there, Miss Lane," Officer Brady said, his Midwest drawl low and measured. "Just settle back, I'll have you at the Kents' in about five minutes."

I obeyed and resumed biting my nails. Funny how I'd been under such stress for the past few hours and yet hadn't done it until I was sitting in a car with nothing to do but wait. Even on the _Black Zero _I'd been too preoccupied to waste time on the old habit.

"Miss Lane, can I ask you a point-blank question?" Brady asked.

"Sure . . . I'll answer it if I can."

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the cornfields and paying close attention to the road signs. "Why would Zod come here to Smallville?"

Now it was my turn to hesitate. I withdrew my gaze and stared at the floorboard.

"Is Clark Kent this Kal-El person, Miss Lane?"

I jerked my head up and stared at Brady, shocked. He hastened to explain.

"I've known of him my whole life, ma'am. We went to preschool together, our families went to the same church . . . heck, there wasn't a day up until we graduated high school where I _didn't _see him. And I've watched him do some pretty amazing things . . . "

"Like?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

Brady took a deep breath. "Like saving our schoolbus when it went off a bridge."

I remembered Pete Ross telling me about that incident and kept my mouth shut.

"When Zod came on TV last night, the first person I thought of was Kent. And I could've sworn that guy back there looked like him, even with that suit."

My stomach churned; Brady was getting a little too close to the mark for comfort. He glanced at me and pressed his lips together.

"Well anyway . . . if he _is _Clark Kent, you don't have to worry about me or anyone else in this town broadcasting it to the world. We've been tight-lipped about him this long. Reckon we can keep a secret like this even longer."

"I'm sure he appreciates it," I said. Brady's eyes darted to me again and I offered him a small smile. He released a long breath and nodded, flipped on his blinker.

"Here we are," he said, turning into a gravel driveway. I leaned forward in my seat, praying the farmhouse was still standing.

"Lordamercy," he murmured. "What happened?"

The house still stood, thank goodness—but there was a gaping hole in the roof and splintered beams blocked part of the sagging front porch. I clenched the arm of my seat. If Martha Kent was dead . . . if that's why Clark looked so furious . . .

I was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. I didn't care if my last meeting with Martha Kent had been one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life; she was Clark's mother, she'd raised an alien child as her own and had loved him, had made him what he was today, and if Zod had killed her . . .

"Mrs. Kent?" I screamed. "_Martha!_"

The screen door flew open just as my foot hit the porch step and Martha appeared, her eyes wide and her lips parted in surprise. I froze, released a choking gasp.

"Oh, thank God," I whispered.

She blinked, turned back towards the screen door. "Clark!"

I stared in disbelief as the door burst open again and Clark stepped quickly onto the porch. He looked tired and his face was covered in sweat and soot—but he was alive and I didn't see any signs that he was hurt. I let out another gasping breath and gripped the porch railing for support.

"I—I know how to stop them," I stammered. "You have to—"

"Sit down," he said firmly. "Sit!"

I sank to the porch steps and realized I was shaking. He got down on one knee beside me; Martha darted into the house again and came back with a Coke.

"It's all I have, the sink isn't working," she explained, handing it to me.

I didn't care; I hadn't had anything to drink in hours and I took a long, hard gulp. Clark laid a hand on my shoulder, purposefully ignoring the police officer who stood in the middle of the yard staring at all of us and the house. Martha addressed Brady first.

"You doing all right, Ben?"

Brady cleared his throat, probably stunned to think that she was asking him how he was amid the ruins of her own house. "Yes ma'am . . . found her by the Morgensen place and she said she needed to get here. Thought I was gonna have to drag her away from Smallville and the, umm, the fight."

Clark drew a deep breath and turned his head. Brady's Adam's apple went up and down.

"Thanks for bringing her, Ben," Clark said quietly. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this in town."

Brady gave one jerky nod. "Not a word. Not a word." He searched for words, gave up, tipped his cap in Martha's direction. "See you later, Mrs. Kent."

She nodded and he backed away. No one said a word until the police car backed up and drove away; then Clark rubbed my arm gently.

"Feeling better?"

"Much better," I said, meeting his eyes for the first time since I sat down. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, his gaze leaving me and going to the distant smoke. "Smallville's taken a beating, though."

"You didn't look like you were getting easy treatment yourself," I said quietly.

"I can bounce back faster than Main Street will. The important thing is that Zod and Faora are gone—for now. I left Colonel Hardy in charge—"

I almost dropped the Coke. "Hardy! What is he doing here?"

"He came to challenge Zod and ended up getting tangled in our fight. It's all right now," he added with a small, reassuring smile. "He, at least, knows I'm not an enemy."

_Well thank God—it's about time_.

"Let's just get back to where you tried to start," Clark said, settling into a more comfortable seat on the porch beside me. "You said you know how to stop them?"

I quickly reached into my pocket, handing the key to him. "I met your father—your real one."

His eyes lit up and he took the key from my palm. "You were able to use it, weren't you?"

"Yes! How did you know I'd be able to?"

He glanced at his mother, who was listening curiously. "While I was living on the Ellesmere ship he told me the House of El designed most of the ships on Krypton throughout its whole history. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Zod's ship could probably be controlled by the same command key."

"Well, it worked," I said, and proceeded to tell him everything that had happened as carefully as if I was explaining a story to Perry. He frowned in concentration as I told him about the Phantom Zone and the plan Jor-El had outlined. When I mentioned the baby shuttle, I glanced up at Martha; she watched her son worriedly, but he didn't say a word until I was finished.

He drummed his fingertips against his knee and looked up at the nearby barn. I noticed there was a hole in the tin roof, much smaller than the one in the house's roof.

"The woman jumped into _that_," Martha murmured to Clark.

He craned his neck back to look at her, aghast. "She knew it was there?"

"Only because I accidentally looked in that direction," Martha admitted, embarrassed.

Clark let out a long, heavy sigh, then rose to his feet and stepped off the porch. Martha and I shared a glance and hurried after him.

He threw open the barn door, his cape snapping and billowing behind him in a light breeze. I hadn't ever been inside a barn; they'd always been relegated to childhood storybooks. It was empty and dusty, the only light provided by the windows and the new skylight. I wondered if, in the days when Jonathan Kent was still alive and Clark lived at home, it was bright and noisy and smelly with animals.

Clark stopped in the middle of the barn, looking down at the hole in a wooden cellar door at his feet. Before Martha or I could speak, he grabbed a chain connected to the door with one hand and pulled. The door creaked open and I stepped closer, peering into the cellar beneath.

The shuttle I saw on Jor-El's hologram screen lay inside, but the spherical structure I'd seen was now the head of a rocket-like structure, a little like those Apollo modules from the space age had been connected to the Saturn 5's. Though the curving panels of the shuttle lay open, revealing a cradle-like bed inside, I recognized the symbol of the House of El engraved on the outside.

Clark, still holding the cellar open by the chain, turned to his mother. "How did it open?"

Martha shrugged, rubbed her elbows. "Guess _she_ opened it. They were looking for something, something she called a . . . a 'Codex?' "

Clark nodded. "That's what I was trying to tell you about just before Lois got here. It's some kind of genetic code he can use to breed new Kryptonians. He's convinced that we've got it, but the fact is . . . I've never heard of it before he mentioned it to me."

"Your father told me about it," I said quietly.

His eyes turned sharply on me, but if he had questions, he decided to keep them to himself for now. He wound the chain around a hook in the wall and jumped down, completely ignoring the wooden ladder at the edge of the cellar; as Martha and I watched, he laid his hands on the heavy open panels and pushed them closed.

"Mind if I come?" I called.

"Sure. Come and get a good look at your third alien ship."

I grinned and clambered down the ladder. The whole ship was taller than Clark and maybe ten feet long; I circled it, ran my hands along its side, even found a small pentagon-shaped portal just like the one in my cell. The command key would fit perfectly inside.

_Perry will be beside himself when he finds out I've gotten this up-close and personal with the ship that carried Kal-El to Earth . . . and I'll bet he makes sure Glen Woodburn doesn't get this story. I wish I had a camera. And a notebook. _

_ But especially a camera. _

"So we have to drop this like a bomb on the _Black Zero_," Clark mused aloud.

"Shouldn't that be easy?" I asked. "Could you just . . . I don't know, just throw it?"

Clark raised one eyebrow with the same wry expression he'd given me when I railed against the idea of him being handcuffed. "How much do you think that thing weighs?"

"Does that really matter?" I retorted. "If I recall my investigation correctly, _you_ were the one who held up an oil rig."

His blue eyes flashed with real amusement. "It still fell within five minutes and I got knocked out cold in the ocean."

"Oh stop it, Clark, I don't even want to think about _that_," Martha muttered from above.

He smiled gently at her and graciously changed the subject. "On Ellesmere, didn't they have some heavy-duty helicopters that could carry big loads of cargo?"

I nodded, summoning my extensive military knowledge. "Chinooks. They can carry tens of thousands of pounds. I don't know that it could drop this thing like a bomb . . . but you could get a military transport plane to do _that_."

Clark nodded, ran his hand over the ship's side thoughtfully. "We need to get one of those choppers here. Not here on the farm—I don't want the military anywhere near the farm if I can help it—but that would probably be the best way to get the shuttle out of Kansas, at least."

"Do you think Zod will come back?" Martha asked worriedly.

Clark nodded up at her. "He may not come back here to Smallville but he's not about to retreat from Earth completely. He's got a plan and he'll be carrying it out as quickly as he can."

"And his plan is?" Martha demanded.

"To turn Earth into Krypton," Clark and I said in unison. He looked at me in surprise and I turned an uncomfortable shade of red. Martha squatted at the edge of the cellar, amused.

"Sounds like you two have a good grasp on your enemy's mind," she said with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows.

"And two heads are better than one when you're dealing with an enemy like Zod," Clark said. "Climb back up, Lois, and I'll lift this thing out of the cellar."

* * *

Thirty minutes later found me sitting alone in a field a couple of miles from the Kent property, my back against the shuttle. Clark had carried it here on his shoulder. My heart had been up in my throat the whole time; it hadn't been easy for him, and several times he had to stop and catch his breath.

He was convinced the _Black Zero _would land soon. Apparently his mind reading—of which he provided precious few details—had shown him its descent upon Earth. It had an appendage Zod had called a "world engine" that was capable of changing Earth's gravity field and atmosphere to mimic those of Krypton; every human without proper protective equipment, like the breather I wore on the ship, would die unless the _Black Zero _was sent back to the Phantom Zone.

"The only way I see us carrying this out successfully is for us to activate the drive on the shuttle and then have a military plane drop the whole thing on Zod's ship," Clark told me. "I just wish I knew where the _Black Zero _will land."

I wished that, too, as I sat on this desolate prairie with my back against the shuttle. If I had my phone, I could at least find out what was going on in orbit—but of course, my phone had been confiscated by the FBI this morning. As it was I could only pluck at the grass, listening to the wail of distant sirens in Smallville and glancing up at the sky every few minutes to see if Clark was coming back.

When I finally caught sight of him, I leaped to my feet. He hit the ground gracefully and came towards me with deep concern in his blue eyes.

"Is Hardy coming?" I asked anxiously.

"Yes, as soon as a Chinook arrives."

"How is Smallville?"

"Terrible. Main Street looks like a war zone. I can't believe the American military would . . ." Clark stopped, glanced at me. "They shot missiles at us, Lois. I know they thought they had no choice, but still . . . they _bombed_ Smallville."

"It's not your fault," I said firmly. "You told me on the way here that you found Zod about to kill your mother. It's not your fault that Faora came and challenged you to a fight before you could get Zod clear of the town."

He clenched his hands. "Next time, I'm taking them all as far away from innocent people as I can get them. Five people so far are dead—people I knew. I _can't_ let that happen again."

_Of course he would be devastated_, I thought. Clark Kent hated to see others suffer. I tried to change the subject before his spirits could sink too far.

"Was Hardy easy to convince?"

Clark shook his head. "No, not at all. He probably didn't think he had much choice anyway. The _Black Zero _has divided and both it and the world engine are descending."

"What? Who told you that?"

"Hardy. NORTHCOM told him. The main ship's coming down somewhere on the East Coast, and the world engine is headed to the other side of the world." Clark rubbed the back of his neck. "At least we won't have to wait too long to make our strike."

"I thought we'd at least have a little more time to make our plan fool-proof," I murmured.

"Well, we'll just have to move faster than Zod." Clark leaned his back against the shuttle and folded his arms over his chest. "Before we discuss anything else, though, I need you to tell me exactly what my father told you about the Codex."

"Okay," I said, nodding. "But first, tell me what Zod told _you_."

Clark stared at the ground, frowning, as he recalled the conversation. "It was during the mind-reading. He told me my father sent the Codex away with me. The ship on Ellesmere had something called a 'Genesis Chamber,' where new Kryptonians could be bred. It was like a gigantic womb . . . an aquarium full of amniotic fluid. According to Zod, my father knew that ship was on Ellesmere when he and my mother sent me away. If I harnessed the genetic code in the chamber, new Kryptonians could be bred here on Earth."

"So why do you question that?" I asked.

Clark fastened his eyes on me again. "My father said I'm the bridge between two worlds. He didn't say anything about being a destroyer of one world to make room for the other."

"Well, you can believe your father," I said quietly. "He _did_ send the Codex away with you—but Clark, you _are_ the Codex. He put it in you to preserve it _and _to keep Zod's hands off it . . . not so you could restart Kryptonian civilization. Don't ask me how, I'm just telling you what he told me."

Clark raised his eyebrows. "So the Codex is inside me?"

"Yes."

"Does Zod know?"

I nodded, remembering Jor-El's warning that the creepy scientist would discover the Codex in Clark's blood sample. "And if he kills you, he can harvest it from . . . from your body."

I barely suppressed a shudder at the grisly thought. Clark settled back against the shuttle again, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the flat prairie around us.

"He'll come after me again, then," he mused aloud. "And once he starts modifying Earth's environment, he and his little army be more than eager to fight me."

_And you'll be weaker_, I thought. Clark looked at me again and I knew he was thinking the same exact thing.

"I think you should stay here in Kansas," he said quietly.

My mouth fell open. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No, I'm not. Trying to stop Zod will be dangerous, even with a good weapon like this one . . . and someone needs to be with my mom if anything happens to me."

"Don't be silly," I snapped. "Nothing's going to happen to you. And I'm not a coward. I spent months in Afghanistan a couple of years ago looking death straight in the face almost every day—and remember, I'm the woman who followed you into an alien ship just to get a good story. Not to mention the same person who fought her way out of the _Black Zero _about an hour ago!"

He smiled. "Far be it from me to question your bravery . . . "

"Good," I said, giving my head one hard, satisfied nod.

". . . but I'd still rather you didn't follow me."

"Why not?"

Clark took a deep breath. "Because if anything happened to you, I'd never be able to live with it."

I stared at him, speechless. Clark uncrossed his arms and stepped away from the shuttle, closing the distance between us.

"It didn't surprise me when Swanwick refused to give you up to Faora," he said. "What did stun me was when you said you'd go."

I scrambled for an appropriate reply. "I had to—"

"Just listen to me, Lois"—and he laid his finger over my lips. I lowered my eyes in confusion.

"I already knew you were brave," he murmured. "I even knew you were selfless. I just didn't know how brave or selfless you were until I saw you walk into that ship with your head held high like you had absolutely nothing to fear."

I gulped as he tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, my heart pounding wildly at his touch. I found myself wondering how on earth I ended up like this with the quiet guy who'd carried my duffle bag around the Ellesmere military base. _Who would've ever thought . . . _

"You mean a great deal to me, Lois," he whispered. "And I don't want to see you get hurt just because you feel like you're required to see this through to the end. You owe me nothing. Don't put yourself at risk for me . . . _please_."

I let out a shaky laugh. "I owe you _nothing_? I owe you _everything_, Clark Kent! You saved my life twice and here you are getting ready to save it a third time!"

"That doesn't—" he began, but this time I was the one who clapped my hand over his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise as I stood on tiptoe, making sure he was paying attention.

"You mean a great deal to me too, Clark," I whispered. "More than anyone else on this planet. If anything happens to me before the end of the day it'll be worth every second I got to spend with you. You got that? I'm not leaving you."

I withdrew my hand. Clark stared at me, wonder all over his young face, and I felt that same breathless excitement I'd felt holding his hand as we waited for Faora's ship to come in and take him away. Without the troops watching, however, he was much bolder. I felt his arms wrap around my waist and he kissed me right in the middle of my forehead—a long, gentle kiss that he repeated several times like he couldn't get enough of it. It might not have been exactly the kind of kiss I'd been hoping for since the dream, but it was good enough. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment.

"You're a regular steel magnolia, aren't you?" he whispered.

I tried to laugh. "Southern women are steel magnolias. And I'm no Southern belle."

"It doesn't say anything about you having to be a belle. All it means is a beautiful woman with nerves of teflon. If you don't mind my saying so, you meet both qualifications."

I blushed. "Well, if I'm the Steel Magnolia, you can be . . . you can be the Man of Steel."

Clark pressed his forehead against mine. "I like that better than 'Superman.' "

"You really didn't care for _that_, did you?"

"No, not really."

"I won't mention it again, then."

He smiled and looked like he was about to say something else—but then he stiffened, looked towards Smallville with a frown.

"What is it?" I asked, scared he might leave me again like he'd done in the cornfield.

"The helicopter's coming."

"You can hear it?"

He smirked. "I can hear a pin drop on the other side of the street if I really focus on it. The helicopter's not hard to hear at all. It'll be here in about five minutes. You don't really want Colonel Hardy to catch us like this, do you?"

"No, I guess not," I murmured reluctantly.

He unwound his arms from around me and I drew a shaking hand to my flushed face, hastily tucking my hair behind my ear. Clark watched as if he simply enjoyed looking at me.

"Still want to come?" he asked.

I nodded, threw my head back, smiled bravely. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

**I call this period of time between Lois coming to the Kent farm this second time and when she and Clark return to the military base "The Black Hole of the Story," LOL. Even the novelization doesn't really address it. Sooo. This is my interpretation. **

**By the by, I'm almost finished with the actual writing of this story! Yay!**


	16. Clark's Plan

The landing Chinook and an escort of several smaller choppers sent a fierce gust over the prairie that almost knocked me off my feet. Clark approached the helicopters with a strong, firm stride and met Colonel Hardy just as the officer and three subordinates in heavy armor jumped out of one of the choppers. I couldn't hear them over the roar of the two engines, but I did watch Hardy gesticulate with his hands and noticed a deep frown settle over Clark's face.

The two of them started walking towards me and I stepped forward to meet them halfway. To my surprise, Hardy smiled and extended his hand.

"Miss Lane, it's good to see you alive," he said.

There was no doubting that he really meant it. I smiled and took his hand. "The feeling's mutual, Colonel."

"The colonel just told me the _Black Zero _has landed," Clark said, looking straight at me. "So has the world engine, and they're working in tandem. They're terraforming, Lois."

_Terraforming. "Terra" is Earth. Earth-forming. Good grief, they really are trying to turn us into Krypton._

"What exactly does that mean?" I demanded. "How does it work? How long will it take?"

"Those are details that Dr. Hamilton can give you in Colorado Springs," Hardy said. "We _are_ going to take this little ship to NORTHCOM HQ so we can present Kal-El's plan of attack to General Swanwick."

I looked sharply at him. "Where did it land?"

"The main ship?" Hardy rubbed the back of his head. "In Metropolis. The world engine's somewhere in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of some little desert island."

_Oh no . . . not Metropolis. Dear God, why Metropolis? _

"Then we don't have any time to lose," Clark said sternly. "How long will it take to get to Colorado Springs?"

"Forty-five minutes at the most, including the time it'll take to hook this capsule up to the Chinook," Hardy said. "We'll be at headquarters by three o'clock."

_Three o'clock?! _I looked up at the sky, stunned. It seemed like ages since I'd been arrested.

Clark and Hardy ironed out the last few details and then the colonel and his men went to get

the equipment to secure the shuttle to the helicopter. Clark turned to me.

"Would you rather ride in one of the helicopters?"

I shook my head. "I've ridden in too many military helicopters in my time. There's no novelty to it anymore." _In other words, I'd much rather be with you, thank you very much. _

"All right, then," he said, and before I could say anything else he hooked an arm underneath my legs and swept me clear off the ground. I gasped in delight and locked my arms around his neck.

"Remember, no need to choke me," he said with a smile. I nodded, but didn't loosen my hold much. He hadn't ever taken off with me before and I wasn't going to risk a lax grip.

He turned his face upward, bent his legs, and shot up into the sky so fast it knocked the breath out of me. The wind scraped at my face and clothes, and in sheer terror I dropped my face against his shoulder and shut my eyes tight.

Then, quite suddenly, everything stopped. The wind stopped its shrieking in my ears and I was keenly aware again of Clark's arms firmly around me. He was hovering in mid-air. Gently he nudged my head up with his chin.

"Look," he murmured.

I obeyed, half-curious and half-terrified. The helicopters looked like the delicate little models my dad used to have in his office, their spinning blades just round blurs against the prairie. The Chinook hovered over the shuttle and tiny black dots—Hardy and his men—surrounded it, getting it ready for transport.

I lifted my gaze and drew in a sharp breath of wonder. We weren't as high as if we were in an airplane, that was for sure, but it was _almost_ like being in a plane, just without the roaring of the engines or the nuisance of other passengers or a thick windowpane separating you from the cold, free air. The Kansas landscape spread out as far as the eye could see. I could make out the Kent farm, the long dirt roads, the crippled town with its old-fashioned Main Street bruised and battered. Other helicopters, military planes, ambulances, fire trucks were rushing towards Smallville, and yet I felt a sudden surge of confidence that the little town would bounce back just fine.

_As long as we can stop Zod, of course_. _Otherwise the whole land will be flooded with skulls. _

I shuddered at the memory. Clark must have felt it; he looked down at me in concern as he turned westward and set off at a much easier, but quick, speed.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No," I said, with a shake of my head. "Not really. It's nice up here."

He was silent for a moment and I amused myself by watching the land pass by below me. Aladdin using his magic carpet to impress his girlfriend had nothing on _this_.

"So you're General Sam Lane's daughter."

I looked at him with a start. I didn't remember telling him. "Yes . . ."

"And won the Pulitzer Prize a couple of years ago. That's quite an accomplishment."

"Hold on a second—how do you know that?"

He smiled mysteriously. "You're not the only one who did some investigating."

"And when, pray tell, was this investigation conducted?"

"When I was making my way back to Smallville and realized you were on my trail. I hadn't forgotten you, you know."

I raised my eyebrows. "So I hear. Your father knew all about me."

Clark looked a little embarrassed; I quickly tried to smooth it over, assure him it didn't matter in the slightest. "What else do you know about me?"

"Well . . . your mother is a famous socialite in Metropolis. Which surprised me. You don't seem like someone who was raised in a fine and fancy home."

I sighed. "I'm a major disappointment to my mother. She doesn't understand why I wouldn't want to let my life revolve around parties and charitable functions where everyone talks their heads off without having anything significant to say. Be thankful your parents stayed together, Clark. At least you had _that_ security."

He nodded. "I know. I hope I never took it for granted."

"I'm sure you didn't," I murmured.

He raised one eyebrow. "I hope you don't think I'm a saint, Lois, because I'm not."

"Don't worry. I know too much about Will MacFarlane and a certain eighteen-wheeler to think _that_."

For a second I thought he was going to laugh out loud, but he suppressed it, instead letting his eyes twinkle mischievously at me. That display of his power, for all it could've gotten him in big trouble for destruction of private property, obviously wasn't something he regretted.

"No, you're no saint," I laughed. "But you are _good_—and in my personal opinion that's all that matters."

He said nothing, but the look on his face was heartfelt thanks enough. I nestled my head in his shoulder again and felt his arms tighten around me.

* * *

As soon as we approached the military airfield with the squadron of helicopters close behind, it was obvious we were expected. What looked to me like a whole troop of soldiers and military police had gathered on the runway—but I did notice a C-17 and a boarding truck. Hardy must have called them up.

"Looks like we've got a welcoming committee," Clark muttered.

I stared down at the airfield. There were so many people . . . more than the squadron that had accompanied us to the desolate spot where Faora picked us up. A sudden fear that Clark would be taken into custody again seized me and I tightened my hold around his neck.

"If they make one move against you—" I whispered.

"They won't," he said firmly. "We have Hardy to back us up—and besides, I won't be so easy to take this time."

"You'll break free, then?"

He met my eyes steadily. "I have to destroy that world engine, Lois. I don't care if they don't trust me yet. I still have to do the right thing."

Still, he waited until the helicopters landed. His foot hit the pavement a few feet from Hardy's chopper and he carefully lowered me to my feet. My head started swimming; I grabbed Clark's arm to steady myself.

"You all right, Miss Lane?" Hardy asked anxiously as he jumped out of the chopper.

"Yeah, just a little light-headed," I said, smoothing my hair back from my face. Wrinkled, bruised, and filthy wasn't exactly how I'd like to face Swanwick again, but oh well. I could already see the general emerging from a military truck a few yards away with Dr. Hamilton and Captain Farris in tow.

"Courage, Lois," Clark said quietly. "I'm going to make sure they load the shuttle properly. You two go and start talking to Swanwick."

"And if he doesn't agree to your plan?" Hardy asked, frowning.

"He has to," Clark said firmly. "Unless he wants to die in the next couple of days."

He gave my hand a squeeze, nodded sharply at Hardy, and strode away. For a moment I stared at his proud erect figure and listened as he called out quick, authoritative orders to the men clambering out of the choppers. I suddenly noticed Hardy staring after him, too. The colonel drew a deep, admiring breath.

"That has got to be the most impressive specimen of manhood I have ever seen in my life," he muttered.

If I hadn't been so weary, I might've laughed. As it was I simply straightened my blouse and set my face towards the approaching Swanwick. I was _not _going to show any weakness around him, not if I could help it—and I wasn't going to back down from what I knew to be true: follow Kal-El, or risk the whole planet going to hell. At that thought my dad's words suddenly came back to me . . . what he'd said to me in the hospital as he lay dying.

"Of course, sometimes we're just called to stand behind the real heroes. And that role oughtta be good enough for us."

_ It's more than good enough for me, _I thought, sharing a nod with Hardy as we set out to meet Swanwick and Hamilton halfway.

"Hardy, what is that d— Chinook carrying?" Swanwick bellowed. "I don't remember giving you clearance to bring anything into this airfield."

Hardy gave me a quick look as if to say, _Let me handle this_. He strode a few steps ahead of me and saluted the general.

"I exercised my own judgment, sir. You told me to do so in Smallville and I obeyed that order. In fact, I exercised my own judgment so much, I nearly blew up the whole town trying to stop the aliens and almost got myself killed in the process. We can't defeat these people on our own, sir—which is why I decided to trust the judgment of someone who thinks he _can_."

"And who might that be? Superman?" Swanwick snapped.

My heart jumped in my throat.

"Superman?" Hardy repeated, taken aback.

"Well, that's what they're calling him. Miss Lane was the one who coined it and every man and his brother on the base has picked it up since. D—d cornball in my opinion."

I almost laughed again and stopped myself just in time. I stepped forward and met his gaze.

"General, Colonel Hardy told us about the terraforming. Zod is trying to turn our planet into Krypton, and if he succeeds then Earth won't be able to sustain human life. We have a plan to stop him, but we need the army to deliver that capsule to Metropolis."

"Wait—is that what I think it is, then?" Hamilton asked, pointing at the shuttle. "It bears a certain resemblance to Zod's ships . . ."

I nodded, glad that he, at least, was catching on. "It's the ship Kal-El arrived in as a baby."

"And what good is it supposed to do?" Swanwick demanded.

Clark's deep voice behind me almost made me jump out of my skin. I hadn't even noticed

him leave the shuttle.

"This ship is powered by something called a Phantom Drive," he said, taking his stand beside me. "It bends space and can penetrate parallel dimensions. Zod's ship uses the same technology, and if we can get the two drives to collide—"

"A singularity will be created," Hamilton finished eagerly.

Swanwick frowned. "You mean . . . like a black hole?"

"Exactly," Clark said. "Zod and his people spent years in the Phantom Zone—a desolate dimension of space that the government of Krypton used as a kind of prison. They're still tethered to the energies they were exposed to there, so if we can open this 'doorway,' then theoretically they _should_ be pulled back in."

"So you want us to bomb them with _that_?" Hamilton prodded.

Clark nodded. "Yes, sir. I know it doesn't seem like much, but you _have _to trust me that it's the only thing standing between Earth and complete annihilation."

"General," Hardy chimed in, "that craft maxes out at seventeen thousand pounds. We could drop it from the C-17. It's a viable plan."

"It's our only plan," Clark added firmly. "Every second we stand here more people are dying in Metropolis—and even more people will die over the next few days. And if I don't stop that machine over the Indian Ocean, the gravity field will only continue to expand."

Swanwick's eyes narrowed; he looked from Clark to the shuttle, then at Hardy, then at me, then back at Clark. It was as if he was sizing us all up, trying to figure out if we were really serious about this.

"Then what are you standing around here for?" he asked, and for once he wasn't barking.

"Because this isn't just my fight, sir," Clark countered. "It's yours, too. And I'd rather go into battle knowing we're all on the same page than leave my home country without your support."

At the words "home country," a sudden change came over the crusty old patriot's face. The skepticism and suspicion fled, replaced first by surprise and then gratitude. I clamped my lips together to keep back a loud sigh of relief as Swanwick nodded.

"Go on, then," he said. That was all he said, but it was more than enough. Clark returned the nod and shot a significant look at Hardy, who headed quickly towards the men getting ready to unhook the shuttle from the helicopter. Clark then swiveled on his heel and walked, with long firm strides, towards the center of the airfield—and as he did so he gestured for me to follow.

"It'll take me only a few minutes to get to the world engine but it might take me a while to figure out how to destroy it," he said as I hurried alongside him.

"It'll take a couple of hours at least for us to get to Metropolis from here," I said. "Surely you'll have it down by then."

He narrowed his eyes, watching the Chinook lower the shuttle onto a boarding truck. "I hope so. As soon as it's shut down, don't hesitate. Activate the Phantom Drive right away. I'd like to see Zod and his people off this planet by the time the sun goes down."

He stopped, looked up at the sky. I gulped, fear for him twisting my stomach until my gut actually hurt.

"If that machine is making Earth more like Krypton, won't you be weaker around it?" I murmured.

"Maybe, but I'm not about to let that stop me from attacking it with everything I've got."

"Well, be careful," I whispered.

He nodded, his face softening. "If we weren't being watched . . . I'd kiss you goodbye."

In spite of myself, I managed to reply with a wiscrack. "You'd better not. Dr. Hamilton thinks you might be carrying some 'alien pathogen,' remember? I might be sent in for disinfecting if I got kissed."

A brilliant smile crossed Clark's face, making my heart rate do all manner of queer things, and I thought for a second that he might even laugh. It would've done me a lot of good to have heard it.

"Very funny, Lois," he said, still smiling. "You might want to step back a little."

I obeyed, guessing he was about to take off, but could only force myself three or four feet away. He raised his eyebrows, wryly amused.

"Maybe a _little_ bit more."

I had to smile back at him at that and skipped backwards several more feet. He nodded his approval, gave me one long, reassuring look . . . and then he bent almost to the ground, turned his face to the sky, and was gone in a sudden blast of power that shook the ground at my feet.

* * *

"Miss Lane! Miss Lane, wait a minute!"

I turned on the boarding ladder as I followed Colonel Hardy into the C-17. The shuttle had already been loaded into the huge plane's cargo area, and less than an hour after arriving here in Colorado Springs we were about to head east for Metropolis. To my surprise, Captain Farris ran towards me, mounting the ladder with a nimble step. She held some kind of dark green bundle against her chest, and in her other hand she gripped the shoelaces of a pair of heavy boots.

"The general wanted me to give you these," she said as she reached me. "He said you needed to look the part if you're going into battle with the United States Army."

She handed the boots to me along with the bundle. I took both and realized the bundle was a folded military jumpsuit. My face flushed with both embarrassment and pride—embarrassment because I knew the clothes I wore looked awful, pride because General Swanwick obviously thought me worthy of the uniform.

"Tell the general 'thank you' for me," I said warmly. "I really appreciate it."

She smiled and nodded, then hurried back down the ladder. I watched her until her foot hit the ground again and she darted back towards Swanwick's jeep; then I turned and entered the C-17.

"Better find yourself a place to light until we take off, Miss Lane," Hardy said, motioning towards a seat near the window. "Then you can change and head up into the cockpit with me. We'll be able to get reports from Swanwick about the world engine from there."

"Sounds great," I said, plopping down in the seat and settling my new uniform on my lap. "Thanks for your support down there, Colonel. You must've worked out the shuttle's weight on the ride back from Smallville."

He gave me one of his dry smiles and shrugged. "Well, let's put it this way . . . your mystery man from Ellesmere saved my life in that little town and I was glad to return the favor, even if I could only do it in a small way."

That was all he said and he retreated to the cockpit, but his words gave me a warm surge of confidence. If we all made it out of this day alive, maybe Clark would have no more reason to fear the world's rejection.

* * *

As soon as the C-17 had taken off with a thunderous roar and glided, fast and smooth, towards Metropolis, I made my way to the nearest restroom and looked at myself for the first time since I got dressed in my apartment that morning. My reflection almost made me gasp in horror. My cheeks were bruised from Faora's brutal slap; almost all of my hair had straggled out of its ponytail; my clothes were wrinkled and stained in places with Clark's blood. I glanced down at my shoes. They were just about to fall apart.

"Good thing my mom can't see me now," I muttered, wriggling into the jumpsuit and sitting on the toilet to lace my boots. "She'd never let me hear the end of it."

Then I stopped, shoelaces half-tied. _Mom. _She was in Metropolis.

I raced out of the bathroom like a madwoman and stuck my head in the cockpit. Hardy turned and looked at me questioningly.

"Is there any way I can make a call from here?" I demanded.

"What kind of call?" he asked.

"A personal one. I'll make it quick, I swear."

Hardy frowned slightly, but he jerked his thumb at the back of the cockpit. "Radiotelephone right by your head."

I turned, snatched the military-green receiver from its cradle on the wall. I sank to a seat on the floor, not particularly wanting to place this call within the hearing of Hardy and his co-pilot, but I really didn't have a choice and smothered my discomfort as best as I could. The phone rang over and over again on the other end.

_Come on, Mom, pick up . . . _

"Hello?"

My mother's voice sounded thin and high-pitched, and there was a lot of background noise that made her even harder to hear. I gripped the receiver with both hands, shaky with relief.

"Mom? Mom, it's me, it's Lois!"

For a moment she said nothing, and then I heard her gasp, "Oh God . . . oh God . . ."

"I'm okay," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I guessed she'd heard about me being taken aboard the _Black Zero_; for all she'd known until five seconds ago, I was still there. "I escaped a couple of hours ago. Are you all right?"

"They're making us evacuate the apartment building." I heard indistinct voices on the other end, as if she were in a crowd of people. "They made me get out before I could even pack a little travel bag—"

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know—someone said we're going to hide in the subway station. Oh Lois, it's awful, this ship is right in the middle of the city and it's taking down buildings like dominoes—!"

"Mom, you get in the subway station and you _stay there_. That ship is going to try to flatten Metropolis. Don't try to get back to your apartment—I don't care what you left there—you just stay where it's safe, do you understand?"

I heard a distant scream on the other end. Mom sounded like she was on the verge of a panic attack. "I thought this was all over—I thought if the alien gave himself up they'd go away . . ."

"Listen to me, Mom."

She sniffed loudly and now it sounded like she was running. "I'm listening."

"I'm on a military plane and we're going to try to—to stop that ship." _No use trying to explain sci-fi physics to her, she'd never understand it. _"It's going to be risky, though, and a lot depends on Kal-El taking out the other half of Zod's ship on the other side of the world."

"Kal-El?" Mom repeated, a little confused. "Is that the alien?"

"Yeah, Mom."

"Because they're calling him 'Superman' on TV right now."

_Oh for crying out loud . . . _"Well, he escaped too and we're helping him defeat Zod, okay? But look, Mom . . . if anything happens to me . . ."

I stopped, my throat contracting until it hurt. It surprised me. I hadn't said an affectionate thing to my mother in years. I couldn't remember the last time she had hugged me. And yet now, when either or both of us might not make it through the day, I was going to _cry_? I drew a deep breath and lowered my voice.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to know that I—I do love you. Okay?"

"O—okay," my mother stammered.

"And I'm sorry if I haven't been the daughter you wanted," I blurted out, bitter pain twisting in my chest.

"Don't talk like that," my mother snapped. I could really tell she was running now; her breath was coming in sharp gasps. "_Don't_. You just . . . you just do what you have to do. You're a brave girl. You give 'em hell, okay?"

I blinked hard and this time I was the one who sniffed in a rather undignified fashion. "Okay."

"And you tell that Superman he looks pretty darn good in that suit."

I laughed shakily. "Okay. Take care, Mom."

I staggered to my feet against and set the receiver back in the cradle. Mom never did tell me she loved me. And yet, for the first time in Heaven knew how long, I was able to believe she did.

* * *

**For the first time in my fanfic writing I'm allowing some reconciliation between Lois and her mother...it's probably about time. **

**I'm thinking there'll be no more than three more chapters for this story, and hopefully I'll be able to say "The End" by the last week or so of July! What did y'all think of the last chapter, by the way? **


	17. The Phantom Zone

"Terraforming works this way," Dr. Hamilton said, pointing at the computer screen in the work station Colonel Hardy's men had set up for him. I leaned closer, glad for something to distract my attention the closer we got to Metropolis.

Besides, my questions about the unearthly science seemed to delight him. The guy may have been as worried as the rest of us, but he was obviously getting a huge charge out of a situation that still felt like it came straight out of make-believe.

We sat in the C-17's cargo hold in the shadow of the Kryptonian shuttle; we both wore green jumpsuits and helmets with built-in radiosets, connecting us with Colonel Hardy in the cockpit. The heavy helmet shut out at least some of the huge engines' roaring, which was exceptionally loud here in the hold and put the whole room in a perpetual tremor.

"Now here's the ship in Metropolis, and here, the ship in the Indian Ocean." Hamilton pointed at a digital chart of the globe with the two ships on the exact opposite sides of the world. "Each ship is sending what I call a 'gravity wave' through the Earth's crust, into its core, and back to the ship on the opposite side of the world. The seismic readings we picked up at NORTHCOM headquarters indicated the waves were increasing the planet's mass and altering the atmosphere."

"So basically, they're increasing the gravitational force here on Earth and making the air more difficult for us to breathe," I said.

"Exactly. But if Kal-El can destroy the ship in the Indian Ocean—which appears to be the one actually initiating the gravity waves—then the subordinate ship in Metropolis will shut down."

I straightened, rubbed the back of my neck. We'd been in the air for a little over two hours now. In that time I'd at least had something to eat, but I was tired and I ached all over. Dr. Hamilton, sensing my weariness, had the good grace to keep me entertained with stories from Ellesmere Island and his perspective on the past twenty-four hours. He didn't seem to be nearly as suspicious of Clark as General Swanwick had been. In fact, he was clearly fascinated with him and the idea of an alien in our midst.

"Do you have any idea what his home planet is like?" he asked, again drawing my attention away from my physical exhaustion.

"I think the proper tense is 'was,' " I said, smothering a yawn. "It's not there anymore. It blew up. Or imploded. Or something."

"Oh," Dr. Hamilton said, disappointed. "Did Kal-El tell you anything about—"

"Miss Lane!" Colonel Hardy called over the plane's intercom. "Miss Lane, I need you up in the cockpit _now_."

I cast an apologetic look at the scientist. "I'll be back."

"Take your time," he said, typing something into his computer. I raced up into the cockpit, only to freeze in the doorway at the sight that greeted me from the other side of the window.

We were over the bay that separated Metropolis from Gotham City. From the side windows I glimpsed a dozen F-35s, our escort, form a tighter circle around the C-17 as we all headed towards the squid-like structure towering over the very center of Metropolis. I didn't need more than a second or two to recognize it as the _Black Zero_. It was the pulsating blue beam coming from its underside, though, stabbing like a jackhammer into the ground, that sent shivers up my spine.

I made a quick assessment of the city as Hardy circled the plane in a wide perimeter around the _Black Zero_. The Kryptonian ship hovered right over where the central park used to be. There was no trace of the beautiful grove or the manmade lake with the graceful fountain in its center. To my relief, the _Daily Planet_ skyscraper with its distinctive globe still standing. The tower my mom lived in, however, was gone, along with several other familiar buildings that had been there for as long as I had lived in Metropolis.

_Hundreds of people have got to be dead . . . maybe thousands. Why is it still running?! It's been two hours since Clark left. Why hasn't he stopped the world engine? _

Colonel Hardy glanced over his shoulder at me and motioned for me to take off my helmet. I obeyed, knowing he didn't want the nearness of our radio sets to cause interference.

"There you are, Miss Lane," Hardy said as soon as I'd removed to helmet. "That's what we're up against."

I crept a little closer so I crouched in between his seat and that of his co-pilot. Hardy turned to the younger man. "Stay on course . . . we're going to circle the _Black Zero _and let the F35s distract any of the Kryptonians inside the ship. If they catch on to what we're doing . . ."

"I don't see how they could," I muttered.

"Well, I'm not taking any chances." Hardy brought his hand to his radio set. "NORTHCOM, this is Guardian, we have the _Black Zero _in our sights. Request permission to engage."

"Permission granted, Guardian," I heard Swanwick reply on the other end. "You are clear to engage. Send battle assessment when able."

"Copy that," Hardy replied. "Lightning-1, this is Guardian, unleash the hounds."

Immediately the lead fighter streaked ahead with its companions and opened fire. I held my breath as several missiles zeroed in on the ship . . .

. . . and were dragged down by the pulsing gravitational beam.

Hardy's co-pilot swore loudly in horror as the missiles crashed into the surrounding buildings and the flattened park directly below the beam. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he glanced hesitantly at me, but I ignored him.

"They'll never be able to get close to that ship with that beam still operating," Hardy growled. "Come on, Superman, knock out that d— engine!"

_Hurry, Clark_. For the first time I noticed a shimmering blue wall of energy, almost like a transparent wave, slowly making it way out from the beam. Another skyscraper came hurtling down in a cloud of pulverized glass and dust.

"Open your cannons on the enemy, Lightning-1," Hardy snapped into his headset.

"Copy that, Guardian," the fighter captain replied. The fighters let the _Black Zero _have it,

peppering the ship with powerful shots. I'd seen similar projecticles knock enemy trucks clear off a road in Afghanistan, but this time the bullets only glanced off the black Kryptonian metal like they were BB pellets. Hardy gritted his teeth and made another wide loop around the _Black Zero._

"Lightning-1 is Winchester!" the captain shouted over the radio to Hardy.

_Winchester_, I thought, my stomach sinking. _"Out of ammo."_

"Our guns are ineffective!" There was a short pause, and then the captain's voice came again shrill with panic. "My whole bird's being pulled off course! Mayday, mayday, Lightning-1 has lost control—"

Hardy shot out his arm, trying to force me back from the sight of the sleek little fighter going into a free-fall. I rooted myself where I stood, my throat tightening. Hardy quickly switched channels as the fighter slammed into the gravity beam and a burst of static filled his headset.

"There goes another one!" the co-pilot shouted. "Another fighter down, Colonel!"

"NORTHCOM, the gravity field is pulling down our planes!" Hardy bellowed. "Any word on that world engine?"

"Negative, Guardian," Swanwick replied curtly. "Keep circling."

"NORTHCOM, are there any indications that the world engine is even being engaged?"

There was a slight pause. Then, slowly, "The world engine is engaged and activating some pretty sophisticated defense measures. It's been going at it for the past two hours."

My mouth went dry. Then the world engine was defending itself and Clark had been fighting it for two solid hours. If he didn't destroy it soon, Metropolis was lost.

I sank to my knees in between the pilots' seats and fumbled in my pocket for the command key. My fingers closed over it; I pulled it out, stared for a long moment at the elegant curving "S," ran my thumb over it.

_It's not an "S," ding-a-ling. Remember? It stands for "hope." _My throat tightened; I clenched the key in my hand, gritted my teeth, shut my eyes tight.

_Dear God, dear God, dear God, please give him a chance, let him live, give him the strength to stop that world engine . . . I don't care what happens to me, I'm not even going to pray for myself, just let him live and fight for the rest of us . . ._

I hadn't prayed so hard since . . . well, since the robot almost killed me on Ellesmere Island. But I'd only been praying for myself then. I covered my forehead with my free hand, hoping Hardy wasn't going to look down and see Lois Lane trying to keep herself together.

"Lois!"

I jerked my head up. Hardy had never called me by my name. His eyes were still fixed out the window but he reached behind his seat, trying to pull me up. I grabbed his hand and stood with an effort just in time to see the blue energy wave sucking back towards the _Black Zero_'s curving legs. It looked like a tsunami in reverse. The wave hit the beam—there was a flash of light—and the beam shot back into the underside of the _Black Zero. _

"_He did it!_" Hamilton screamed over the intercom. "The world engine is _down! _All readings are null, the beam is stopped_—he did it!_"

"Thank God," Hardy whispered. I shut my eyes, squeezed the command key again.

_Yes . . . thank God._

"NORTHCOM, this is Guardian—we are passing through phase line red," Hardy called in a much lighter tone. "We are good to go for the drop!"

"Godspeed, Guardian," Swanwick replied. Even he sounded somewhat jovial. "You are cleared hot."

Hardy turned to me. "We're lining up for the final run. It's up to you and Hamilton now."

"Got it," I said, nodding firmly. He shot me a quick, dry smile and I raced out of the cockpit.

* * *

The C-17 shuddered as Hardy activated the door in the cargo bay. By the time I clambered into the big room the door was fully opened and a sucking wind forced me to grab onto any hold I could find.

"We're ready to go!" I shouted, racing towards the shuttle. Dr. Hamilton jumped up from his computer and stood beside me while the soldiers nearby released the shuttle from the steel cables that held it in place. A few minutes more and they could let it go, just like a bomb.

I made my way towards the pentagon-shaped portal I'd first noticed inside the Kent barn and opened my palm to reveal, to Hamilton, the little command key.

"So that'll activate the Phantom Drive?" he shouted over the engines and the wind.

"Yes, and we'll need to drop the shuttle as soon as the drive kicks into high gear!"

"How will we know when it's time to drop?" one of the soldiers asked.

I allowed myself a short laugh. "Oh, don't worry, I think we'll know. Here it goes!"

With that I slipped the key into the five-sided hole, my heart pounding with excitement. _Just a few seconds more and they'll be gone . . . it won't be easy going back into Metropolis with all that devastation but they'll be gone._

A sudden charge of blue electricity shot out from the portal, shocking the daylights out of me. I screamed and jumped back as the portal spit out the key like it was something nasty.

"You—you've gotta be kidding me," I stammered, rubbing my throbbing hand.

"What's wrong?" Hamilton demanded.

"I—I don't know." I stared in horror; the sparks of blue electricity held the key suspended in mid-air. "It's not supposed to do this."

"Well, what's it supposed to do?" Hamilton asked snappishly.

"It's supposed to go in all the way! There's no—no electricity involved."

Hamilton frowned, clearly befuddled. "Let me take a look."

I moved out of the way, stunned. Jor-El hadn't warned me about techincal difficulties. What if the shuttle was unoperable? Maybe when it crashed, the day Jonathan and Martha Kent found the baby, it had been damaged. Maybe something hit it—an asteroid or a comet—when it slipped out of the Phantom Zone and into our universe.

_Oh God, don't let this be a dead end, not when we've come so close! _

"We're inbound for the drop!" Hardy shouted; I whirled, saw him scrambling down the steps into the hold. "What's the hold-up?"

Hamilton looked up, straightened his glasses. "We've had a slight setback—"

Before he could finish, a deafening explosion and a burst of heat and light rocked the plane. It almost knocked me off my feet and I grabbed the edge of the shuttle for support. Glancing over my shoulder I saw a ball of smoke and flame. Passing through it, completely unharmed, was the huge hulk of a spacecraft, long and elegant, strangely reminiscent of a whale or a . . .

_ A submarine._

"I don't believe it," Hardy whispered. "That's not—"

"It _is!_" I cried, stepping closer to the open door of the plane. "It's the Ellesmere ship!"

For a moment I allowed myself to hope that Clark was the pilot. He'd piloted it off Ellesmere; maybe he'd brought it back from wherever he hid it to help us out. Another shot of plasma from the ship's guns, however, killed that notion pretty quick. The blast hit one of the fighters that still faithfully guarded the C-17, blowing it to kingdom come.

"Mayday, mayday!" the co-pilot shouted over the intercom. "We're under attack—repeat, we are under attack!"

"Get back, Lois!" Hardy screamed. I moved to obey when something small, blue, and red slammed into the Kryptonian ship with a crash.

There was no mistaking that crimson-red cape. The men behind me had seen it, too, and a few of them raced to my side to watch in awe and horror as the ship drunkenly veered off course.

"It's going down!" one of the young privates shouted. "Good golly, look!"

I clapped a hand to my mouth as the spaceship carreened into several skyscrapers that had somehow survived the gravity beam. Even over the C-17 engines you couldn't help but hear the crashing of glass and the low rumble of buildings collapsing upon themselves.

"Think he survived that?" someone shouted to me.

Before I could answer another explosion cut me off. This time the plane rocked so violently, the men around me shouted and swore in alarm—and this time, the plane didn't stop rocking. Sirens were going off, the engines shuddered and groaned. I whirled and my heart jumped into my throat.

Faora-Ul, dressed in her sleek black armor, stared at me through her transparent respirator, the only thing that protected her from an atmosphere that was still as poisonous to her as the Kryptonian air was to Clark. I glanced quickly at the roof of the plane, caught sight of a Faora-sized hole, and gulped.

Faora took a step forward. The men around me raced towards her, guns cocked. With a cruel smile she backhanded the one who reached her first, slamming him, unconscious, against the wall. A second soldier fired at her head, and with the grace of an Olympic gymnast Faora did a backflip and landed several feet closer to me.

If she was trying to reach me, showing off like that didn't help her in the slightest. The force of her booted feet hitting the floor of the bay sent the plane into another violent tremor. I lost my balance and hit the open landing ramp, rolling uncontrollably down the slanting surface.

Somehow I grabbed the edge of the ramp and screamed at the top of my lungs. My legs dangled and the wind tore at my jumpsuit, at the heavy cargo boots. I half-expected to see Faora's face over the edge and feel her slam her heel into my fingers, forcing me to let go—but she never showed up. I could hear her fighting the men in the cargo hold. One of them screamed and something fell with a thud on the landing ramp not far from my fingers.

Gritting my teeth, I forced my upper body up. Muscles I didn't know I had burned in agony as my head came up over the edge of the ramp in time to see Hardy race up the stairs again, Faora following. A body lay on the ramp near me, one of the young privates. He looked like his neck had been broken.

And on his knees beside the shuttle, trying to turn one of its heavy panels with one hand and clutching at his bloodied side, was Dr. Hamilton.

"Hamilton!" I shrieked.

He glanced over his shoulder, white as paper with blood trickling through his fingers. He gave me one long, pleading look; my arms shook with effort and tears of exhaustion blurred my eyes, but I was at least able to nod fiercely.

_Yes, please, just do it! Just do what you can and if I don't make it then it's okay . . . none of us are going to make it off this plane anyway . . ._

Hamilton drew his shaking hand away from his wounded side and gave the shuttle's panel a hard, quick twist. The sparking portal died and Hamilton slammed his bloody fist against the command key, forcing it deep into the five-sided slot.

The whole shuttle lit up like a Christmas tree. In seconds it literally turned every color of the rainbow. It _shimmered_. The long-silent engines whirred and throbbed, and as the baby shuttle came to life the huge C-17, by comparison, seemed strangely small and powerless.

Then, all was confusion.

Hamilton crumpled, too weak from blood loss to stand another moment. At the same time my upper body strength gave out; I lost my precarious position and dangled again from the ramp. The skin on my fingers burned as I tried to hold on.

"A good death is its own reward!" Hardy's voice roared over the intercom, as if he was giving some last Charge-of-the-Light-Brigade-style battle cry. A wailing siren went off somewhere in the plane and the C-17 went into a steep, rapid nosedive_._

The abrupt change in direction was too much for my fingers. I screamed, panicked, tried to tighten my hold again, but I was grasping at empty air and falling flat on my back.

With the wind screaming in my ears and pulling me towards the Earth at a sickening speed, I saw a great, gaping hole tear the sky wide open. There was nothing on the other side of that whole, just darkness. The _Black Zero_, enveloped in the fireball that had once been the C-17, turned a ghastly shimmering color and began to wither, shrink, and writhe, as if it was trying to get away and couldn't.

The light intensified until I had to shut my eyes. In a few more seconds I would hit the ground and I wouldn't know anything else. I'd never know if Clark had survived. If my mom was safe. If Perry had made it out of the _Planet _building . . .

Something slammed into me so hard it knocked the wind right back into my lungs. A pair of strong arms caught me in a tight cradle. I didn't even open my eyes or question the identity of my rescuer; my stinging fingers felt the smooth cape and the textured suit and the dark curls at the back of his head. I buried my face in Clark's neck and clung to him, feeling the hard, insistent lure of the Phantom Zone on us and unable to do anything but hold on tight.

The muscles in his back and shoulders tightened until I heard them crack. He groaned, drew a hard, gasping breath. I opened my eyes. He shimmered like the baby shuttle, and beneath the eery glow his face was distorted with effort. That frightened me more than the sight of the black hole.

_Come on, Clark, you can do it—I know you can! _

Clark pushed himself forward with a horrible roaring cry of agony. For another awful moment nothing happened, and then we were moving, slowly but surely, accelerating as the screaming and throbbing of the Phantom Zone began to die down.

I peeked over his shoulder just as the massive hole started closing in on itself. It drew up, let out one roaring shriek—and vanished. The yawning Phantom Zone, the _Black Zero_, Faora, Zod, Hardy, Hamilton . . . all were gone.

There was nothing left but the hazy evening sky.


	18. Last Resort

**This chapter is a little short, but ****_it's the second-to-last one AND I FINISHED THE WHOLE STORY TODAY! _****Hallelujah, hallelujah! Ah, I'm so excited. Anyway, enjoy it while you can...this story is almost over! ;)**

* * *

I let out a weak, choked sob before I could stop myself. Hardy and Hamilton had been with me at the very beginning of this crazy adventure when it first started on Ellesmere Island. Now they'd given their lives to protect the world from the worst menace it had ever faced.

_ And now they're gone. They're dead. I'm the only one left._

Clark glanced down at me. He looked exhausted, but true to character he wasn't wasting any thought on himself. He rubbed my arm briskly.

"Are you all right?"

I shook my head and burst into tears, too tired to worry about my own dignity anymore. Clark didn't say anything, didn't try to get me to talk; he just kissed my filthy hair and continued his descent.

His foot hit the flattened ground with hardly a bump. The air was thick with dust; I could smell smoke, hear the distant shouts and screams of those who had somehow survived the terraforming. Through the haze I realized he'd landed in the very spot where the gravity beam had concentrated. The twisted corpses of skyscrapers surrounded the crater. Except for the faraway voices, Metropolis was eerily quiet.

He set me on my feet. I clung to him, keeping my eyes and hands on his face, and as I ran my fingers through his curls a desperate longing suddenly swept into his tired eyes. And then the next thing I knew he was kissing me over and over again, like he couldn't get enough and wasn't about to let me go.

For the first time all day, I felt completely safe. It wasn't some miserable dream designed to break my heart. This time it was real. He really did love me. Me, Lois Lane, who had never trusted anyone enough to be this vulnerable.

_ Well, of all the crazy fairytales . . ._

I pulled back with a shuddering gasp; he pressed his forehead against mine and tightened his hold around my shoulders.

"You—you know they say it all goes downhill after the first kiss," I stammered.

Clark, shaky and breathless, managed a weakly incredulous lift of his eyebrow.

"I'm . . . I'm pretty sure that only counts when you're kissing a human."

I would've probably turned into a complete basket-case if he hadn't started kissing me all over again—or if an ominous crash nearby hadn't startled us.

Clark jerked his head up and I followed his gaze in the direction of the abrupt noise. A cloud of dust billowed up from one of the broken, unrecognizable steel hulks at the far edge of the crater. As we watched, the lone figure of a man staggered from the wreckage. Even from this distance I recognized that armor: black, sharp, multi-layered. There wasn't much mistaking that muscular figure, either. I tightened my grip on Clark's shoulders.

"Lois," he whispered, gently prying my hands away, "I need to go."

"No, don't leave me . . ."

He cupped my face in his big, strong hands. "I'll meet him on my own terms. He's defeated, remember? I'll be back, Lois, I promise. I love you. Help the others, all right?"

I nodded, not even understanding what he meant by that last part. He pressed one final, tender kiss to my lips, then let me go and turned towards the lone survivor. He pushed with one foot and hovered, slowly, over the crater.

"Lane?"

I whirled, startled by the hoarse voice behind me. Only a few feet away, bruised and bloodied and covered in dust, about a dozen people stumbled towards me. The first one I recognized was Perry. His dark hair was grey and thick with dust and his clothes were torn; Steve Lombard was beside him, and between them they carried little Jenny Olsen, whose young face twisted in pain. I raced towards them, overcome with relief.

"What in the name of all that's good and holy—" Perry began, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Clark.

"It's okay, he's good—oh Perry, he's _good_," I whispered. "Jenny, what's wrong?"

She offered me a weak smile; Perry answered for her. "Pretty sure her leg is broken. We just got her free . . . she was trapped underneath some rubble—"

"And we'd've all been crushed if that—that thing hadn't shut off," Lombard interrupted in a whisper. He nodded over my shoulder at Clark. "Did _he_ stop it?"

"Yes," I whispered. "He stopped it."

Perry eyed the two Kryptonians suspiciously. "And I guess the other is the S.O.B. who started this whole mess?"

_Zod. _With a start, I glanced behind me. Clark stood over the kneeling general. Zod was talking, though I couldn't make out his words, and seemed to be extending his clenched hand towards Clark. I couldn't imaging him staying on his knees in front of someone he despised.

That thought woke me, abruptly, from my daze, and not a moment too soon. Before I could reply to Perry, Zod leaped to his feet and struck Clark with his armored fist. The sheer force of the blow sent Clark flying; Jenny and a few of the other survivors screamed as he hit the ground a few feet away. I raced forward but Perry caught me by the arm.

Clark coughed and pushed himself up. Zod was advancing now, stomping, his wrathful eyes blazing hatefully at his young countryman. When his gaze suddenly landed on me and the cluster of terrified people behind me, I sucked in my breath. He recognized me, at least; that much was obvious.

This was a man who had no calculations anymore, no systematic cold-blooded plan. That look in his grey eyes was more like that of an enraged beast who'll tear into anything or anyone he can get his claws into, just to spite his captors.

"I'm going to make _them_ suffer, Kal!" Zod roared, nothing like the cool, calculating tyrant I'd met aboard the _Black Zero_. "These humans you've adopted—I will take them all from you, one by one!"

As he spoke Clark turned his head towards me. I couldn't get to him—Perry was still holding me back—but I met his eyes, gritted my teeth, and nodded firmly.

_Go . . . go and defend us like you were always meant to do. _

Clark's jaw tightened; he turned to Zod again and rose from the ground, the dust seething up around him as if he had his own gravitational force. It was a fearsome sight.

"You're a monster, Zod," he snapped, "and I'm going to stop you."

Perry jerked me backwards just as the two men collided. Clark careened into one of the few remaining skyscrapers within a certain vicinity of the crater, Zod following in a rage. Shards of glass rained down on us. I lifted my arms over my head, the sleeves of my jumpsuit shielding my skin; the others weren't so lucky and screamed in pain.

"Everybody this way!" Perry roared, scooping Jenny up into his arms. "Everybody to the Oldman Street metro station!"

"Is it still there?" I shouted.

"We'd better hope so! Get moving, Lane, don't look back!"

I obeyed, thoroughly frightened. If Zod and Clark were about to have a street brawl of biblical proportions I didn't want to be in the way. And if Zod ever got his hands on me . . . I shuddered, not even wanting to think about what he might do. He knew how Clark felt about me. How I felt about Clark.

He wanted to make us suffer.

* * *

I now knew what Clark meant when he told me to help the others. I was in better shape than most of my companions. The path was almost always blocked, forcing me to take the rear and help the others over treacherous obstacles. Fallen streetlights, twisted gridirons, cars smashed like tin cans from the pressure of the gravity beam, mangled bodies . . . the streets were full of them. A walk that should've taken no more than five minutes now took us twenty. And if there was anything I'd learned that day it was that time stood still when you were scared.

The further we traveled, no matter how slowly, the more people joined us. Deafening crashes and explosions heralded Clark and Zod's approach as I found myself snatching up a bloody-faced, wailing two-year-old. Someone else helped her wounded mother along. The baby cried in pain and fright and I pressed her head against my shoulder.

"Duck!" Perry shouted up ahead, and everyone crouched. I lifted my head in time to see Zod burst into the middle of the street. To my horror, his feet didn't touch the ground. He'd shed his armor and was flying, just like Clark, in a form-fitting suit—only his was black, and he didn't wear a cape.

Then Clark swooped down without warning and slammed into him, kicking him hard in the

stomach and sending him up into the sky. Clark shot off after him without ever noticing us. He was trying to get Zod out of the city; he could give his attention to nothing else.

"Everybody up again!" Perry roared. I staggered to my feet, tried to block out the screaming of the little toddler. She was bleeding heavily onto my jumpsuit. The sight of it made me panic. Even my limited medical knowledge told me nobody this small should be bleeding that badly.

_How the hell did I get here? How is it that I can trace all this destruction all the way back to that day I got off that helicopter on Ellesmere Island . . . that moment when Clark lifted me out of that chopper we had no idea we'd be here today saving the world from alien invaders . . . _

When we reached the metro station we found the doors blocked with rubble. The stronger men among us, Lombard included, clambered on top and helped the weaker ones over and into the station. I handed over the little toddler to one of them and never saw her again, turning instead to help a young man carry his elderly grandmother over the wreckage and into the building.

A rumble of thunder caught my attention; I looked up at the sky and realized it wasn't thunder at all, but a sonic boom as fiery streaks shot through the sky. It looked like a meteor shower.

"Lane, get inside!" Perry shouted.

Again I obeyed him but more reluctantly this time, maybe because I was so close to shelter and felt the freedom to be a little more daring. The "meteors" were coming down very close. Again I felt Perry's hand on my wrist, dragging me inside the station just as flaming hunks of metal hit the street.

"You're an idiot, Lane—a freaking idiot—what the hell do you think you're—"

Before he could finish the whole station shook and I heard the tinkling of breaking glass in the main terminal, followed by a fierce, rage-filled cry. I jerked my arm free of Perry's grip.

"Let me go," I gasped. "I have to help him."

"For God's sake, Lane, there is _nothing _you can do!" Perry bellowed. "They're supermen! You'll get yourself killed!"

I shot him a murderous look and raced down a nearby flight of marble stairs, following the signs to the main terminal. The breaking glass probably meant Zod and Clark had slammed through the ornate glass ceiling, one of Metropolis' most beautiful architectural feats.

Suddenly I heard a frightened, high-pitched woman's scream. I froze. All day long I hadn't heard a scream quite like that. It was followed by a child's sobbing shriek, and then a hoarse man's voice shouting, tiredly, desperately, a single word.

"_Stop!_"

My heart started beating again and I moved my numb legs, right, left, right, left, pounding against the dusty marble. I rounded a final corner, found myself looking down into the main terminal. The floor was littered with broken glass and rubble, and there, in the center of the room, was Clark Kent on his knees, with Zod in a headlock.

_Oh thank God_, my tired brain thought for no more than half a second. Then I registered the rest of the scene. Heavy orange flames blazed from Zod's eyes with an intensity at least ten times stronger than the thin red beams that had cauterized my bleeding stomach on Ellesmere Island. The fire was trained on the opposite wall, and there, caught in the corner between the beams and a fallen pillar, was a family.

Father, mother, two children. And they were all screaming and crying.

I couldn't see Clark's face; he was turned slightly from me, trying with all his might to turn Zod's head away. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. "Don't do this! Stop! _Stop!_"

Zod braced himself and kept the fire moving inexorably, towards the family. I saw the father throw himself over his little boy. The mother wrapped her arms around the daughter's head and buried her face in the little girl's hair . . .

Then there was a deafening snap and the fire died. My eyes flew back to Clark in time to see him wrench his arms hard to the side, let go. Zod crumpled to the cold marble floor, flopped over on his back, and was still.

With cries of terror the humans leaped to their feet and raced away, as far away from Clark as they could get. He didn't seem to notice them. He just slumped over, his hands on his knees. I could see his face now. It was white as paper.

Suddenly he hunched over, curled his arms over his dark head like he was in pain. For a few moments he was silent, rocking himself back and forth. But then he tensed, drew a long, hard, breath, and let it out in a raw, aching, blood-curdling roar of grief and horror and self-hatred that bounced off the walls.

* * *

I will never, ever forget that sound. I'll never forget it as long as I live, and for the rest of my life I'll try to erase the pain that burned itself into Clark Kent's heart in that moment.

I don't know that I'll ever succeed, though. He and I both have scars, and we both know you can hide them. But you can never erase them, no matter how hard you try.


	19. Epilogue

**FYI, I borrowed a bit of material from my story ****_Changed For Good _****for this last chapter :) **

* * *

Only when the echo of his scream died away did I move. I staggered down the marble steps and then started running towards Clark. My own footsteps were the only sounds and they were deafening. And yet even Clark didn't seem to notice it at first. Not until I was standing only a few feet away from him did he lift his head, and for the first time I saw tears running down his face.

My big Joe Wilder, shy Will MacFarlane, commanding Luke Marshall of the burning oil rig— my noble, kind-hearted, majestic Clark Kent—he was crying. Crying like a lost little boy who's just realized how dark and lonely and cruel the world can be.

The look in his eyes, though, was worse than the tears. His eyes pleaded with me and my throat tightened as I realized what they were trying to say to me: _Don't leave me, please don't look at me like I'm a monster . . . oh God, Lois, please don't be afraid of me._

Desperate to tell him I wasn't afraid and never would be, I ran to close the distance between us.I caught his head in my hands and Clark buried his face in my stomach, wrapping both arms around my waist. He was shaking and his sobs were hoarse and broken. I ran my hand through his curls, marveling vaguely through my exhaustion at how thick and soft his hair was.

"Shh, shh . . . it's okay, Clark . . ."

He groaned in reply. I started to bend down, pressing my lips against his forehead and cheek before finally getting down on my knees in front of him. The tears still ran down his face; he gasped for breath and I wiped his tears away with my thumb.

"I didn't know what else to do," he choked. "I _had_ to do it."

"I know, I know," I whispered, running my hand over his cheek. "There was nothing else you could do."

Clark swallowed, glanced over his shoulder to look again at Zod. I grabbed his face in both of my hands and turned his head back towards me. I clenched my teeth.

"Listen to me," I whispered. "I _refuse_ to let you feel guilty. Do you hear me? People have died but thousands—thousands, Clark!—are still alive, because of _you_. I owe you my life and so do countless others. I will not let you eat your heart out over this!"

He lowered his eyes. I still cupped his face in my hands and stroked his cheeks gently with my thumbs until he looked up at me again. He was still indescribably weary and there was a sadness in his eyes that I suspected would stay there for a long time. After all, Clark Kent hated death, hated suffering; this city was going to hurt and suffer for a long time, and the death toll was going to be huge.

Plus, he had just killed someone with his bare hands and sent his last remaining countrymen into the void. After so many years of thinking he was the only one of his kind left . . . now he really was.

Still, when he looked up at me there was a new determination in his expression. I just barely held back a loud sigh of relief. He wasn't going to let this destroy him anymore than he would let the World Engine and the _Black Zero _destroy this planet.

I sniffed loudly, wiped my face with the back of my hand. Then I quickly grabbed his hands and stood. Clark stared up at me blankly.

"Come on," I whispered, tossing loose strands of hair out of my face. "There's a lot of work to be done. Superman will be needed."

I gave his hands a gentle tug. Clark's jaw flexed and he drew a deep breath; then he got off his knees and stood beside me, still holding my hand, grave and regal and, thank God, no longer so defeated. I tried to smile encouragingly and he actually managed to return it, albeit weakly.

And for once he didn't express any disapproval of the new name. I had a feeling it was going to stick.

* * *

_Six months later_

" 'And for once he didn't express any disapproval of the new name,' " I murmured. " 'I had a feeling it was going to stick.' "

I stared at the words, smiled a little. Funny how prophetic I'd been. No one called Clark "Kal-El" anymore unless your name was Lois Lane. I was starting to think I was the only reporter in the world who even remembered his Kryptonian name.

Ironic, since I was the one who came up with "Superman."

I took a deep breath, typed "The End" in capital letters underneath that final sentence. It was done. I'd written out the whole story from the very day that Perry assigned me to Ellesmere Island, to the last time I saw Clark face-to-face.

It wasn't a small feat, either, considering I'd had to write it all at home almost underneath my mother's nose. Most of the time I didn't dare open the file unless I was sitting on my bed with the door locked. The file contained too many of Clark's secrets and I didn't want her peering over my shoulder.

For now, though, I was safe. Mom was still in the bathroom getting ready for her day, and I'd learned over the past six months of her living with her that her toilette could take her a good forty-five minutes. I clicked "save" and closed the file, fully intending on emailing it to Clark when I got home from work tonight.

Email had been our sole form of communication ever since that one phone call we shared a few weeks after the battle. The last time I'd seen him face-to-face was two months ago, and it was in public, at one of the disaster sites where he was assisting the recovery crews; there'd been no chance to speak privately or to even exchange more than a discreet look or nod. We hadn't dared to do anything more than that. Clark was being watched by the whole world and so was I.

The emails, however, seemed safe enough, and soon I started to depend on them. It was the first time in years that I'd had a confidante, and he confessed he felt the same way. We wrote about anything and everything: the battle, our childhoods, how he was coping with the devastation of that battle, how I'd taken in my mother until the skyscraper that held her penthouse was rebuilt. The gridirons were just starting to rise over the big blank spot where the Freeman Tower once stood. Mom and I both watched them creep higher and higher like we were waiting for a pot of water to start boiling.

Still, things were better between me and my mom. I'd forgotten she had headed to the subway station for shelter; when she saw me standing there holding Clark's hand, there was a look of awe and respect I'd never seen in her pale, dust-covered face before. And when she noticed the way Clark looked at me—like he totally depended on me—that awe and respect turned into surprise and delight. I think she was envisioning half-human half-Kryptonian grandbabies by the time we emerged from the station.

But thank God, she gave up on me having a steady romance with Superman without much of a struggle. For several weeks she expected him to fly by my window every night. But when Clark (apparently) stayed with the recovery crews and I (apparently) kept my distance from him, she decided I had no business with troublemaking aliens and started looking elsewhere for a prospective husband for me. It didn't irritate me nearly as much now . . . maybe because I had to laugh to myself and wonder what she'd do if she knew I really was head-over-heels in love with Superman.

Clark Kent kept a low profile; Superman was almost always in the news. It was just last week that he destroyed a drone the government had sent into orbit to watch him. The drone's crash in an uninhabited Nevada desert made the evening news, and even though the military hotly denied that it was anything other than an accident, I knew better. I had an email that evening from Clark that simply read:

_ Uncle Sam a little peeved with Superman today. Superman unrepentant._

And of course I'd laughed out loud, because Clark would only use that name in a humorous context, and also because I found it amusing that Clark, who was usually so respectful and deferential to the American government, was completely unremorseful about smashing one of those drones.

Smiling a little at the memory of that particular email and wondering what kind of response I'd get from him tonight after I sent him the file, I closed my laptop and slammed my feet into my work shoes. As I grabbed my purse from the back of a kitchen chair I heard my phone inside, alerting me about new emails. I rummaged through my unorganized purse and found the phone, glanced at the screen.

My inbox was full: forwarded articles from Perry, email newsletters for literary magazines I'd subscribed to four or five years ago, some chain mail my mother passed to me. I deleted the chain mail just like I deleted every piece of chain mail I'd ever gotten in my whole life, scrolled

down . . . and there was something from Clark.

I smothered a gasp of surprise and selected it, glancing warily at the bathroom door. The hair dryer was roaring at this point; Mom wouldn't be out anytime soon. I took a deep breath and turned to the email again. I found only four sentences.

_Expect to see me today. Can't say what time and I don't want to tell you where. I want to surprise you—but not enough to startle you completely and give ourselves away. I can't wait to see you._

I clenched the back of the chair in front of me and swallowed. _I'm going to see Clark. After all this time . . . I'm going to see him. _

It didn't even cross my mind that maybe he was coming back to Metropolis for some reason in full Kryptonian regalia and he knew I would be there, reporting. Somehow I knew Clark wouldn't set me up like that. He knew how much I'd wanted to see him face-to-face, privately, since the night of the battle when he carried me back to my flat . . . when he set me down on the rickety fire escape, kissed me, and swore he'd be back, that he wouldn't forget about me.

I drew a shuddering breath and slung my purse over my shoulder. I put my mouth to the bathroom door. "Mom! I'm heading out, I'll see you after work."

"Have a good day," she shouted over the roar of the hair dryer. I hurried out, moving so fast I caught the flared hem of my slacks in the door.

Metropolis hummed all around me, reviving and rebuilding and no longer fighting for sheer survival, the way it had done for at least two months after the battle. It still looked war-torn. Missing skyscrapers still left gaping holes in both the sky and the ground, where only naked foundations remained. Still, the clean-up had progressed remarkably fast. City officials credited Superman for that. Some of the smaller businesses were reopening, too, and the streets that had buckled under the weight of the gravity beam had been repaved. People didn't look quite so grave anymore. It was as if they were finally allowing themselves to hope for a better, brighter future.

I raced into the bull-pen a little breathless; I'd half-jogged all the way to work. Steve and Jenny greeted me cheerfully; Perry, who was going over the day's schedule with all his staff, gave me a firm, professional nod as I passed him on my way to my cubicle. I glanced around discreetly. There was no sign of Clark or anyone who remotely resembled him. Mentally, I rolled my eyes at myself.

_Of course he's not here, Lane . . . you really think he's going to show up here in the bull-pen?_

I got to work, deciding it wasn't worth my while to think about Clark Kent all day. I still had a job to do and people to boss around. I was typing furiously at a new political piece when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Steve approaching.

_Oh good Lord_, I thought.

"Come on, Lois . . . when are you gonna throw me a bone?" Steve crooned, a mischievous light in his eyes. "Courtside seats for the game on Saturday? What do you say?"

I raised my eyebrows, finished typing the sentence I was working on. "I say you should go back to trolling the intern pool. You might have better luck there."

Talking and working on two things at the same time had a tendency to get me in trouble. As I spoke Jenny had come up behind me for a stack of drafts Perry had requested earlier, and which he'd sent her to fetch for him. As soon as I mentioned the interns I handed the drafts over my shoulder to Jenny—and the awkward silence that followed made me want to kick myself.

"Sorry," I whispered with a sheepish glance at Jenny, an intern, who'd all of a sudden received the full force of Steve's attention. She blushed, shook her head laughingly at Steve's offer of the tickets.

"Lombard! Lane!" Perry suddenly boomed. The three of us all jerked our heads up, but there wasn't any irritation or scolding in Perry's tone or look as he approached my desk. A tall young man was following him . . . only, the guy was walking backwards, gazing around the bull-pen like he'd never been in such a wonderful place in his life.

"I want you to meet our new stringer and show him the ropes," Perry said, leaning his elbow against the top of my cubicle. "This is Clark Kent."

_Wait, what?_

As soon as he heard his name the young stranger glanced over his shoulder at us. My breath caught in my throat. He was tall but slightly-slouched, dressed in an unassuming but neat ensemble of blue jeans and dark flannel shirt. And he wore glasses. Large, thick-rimmed, _dorky _glasses.

Clark turned all the way around now and I dropped my gaze to my keyboard. My fingers were shaking over the keys. I could hear Steve introducing himself, friendly and completely oblivious. _They don't recognize him. Oh thank God . . . _

"Nice to meet you," I heard Clark say. His voice was quiet and deep but friendly . . . nothing like the stern, authoritative voice Steve and Jenny and everyone else here in this room heard six months ago. I took a deep breath and glanced up again. Clark's deep blue eyes fastened on me, cool and unknowing.

I don't know, maybe it was his complete calm that gave me an extra dose of courage. Maybe it was the fact that in that nerdy disguise he looked oddly boyish, like the picture of Luke Marshall I still had hidden in my bedroom. Maybe it was the realization that now there were no barriers between us. He was here in Metropolis; if he was working for the newspaper he was here to stay. With me. He'd come back, just like he promised.

I stood up, smoothly and with a completely straight face.

"Hi," I said, extending my hand. "Lois Lane. Welcome to the Planet."

Suddenly Clark's mask crumbled. He lowered his eyes for a moment, then lifted them again with a quiet, thankful look.

"Glad to be here, Lois," he said.

I smiled. I couldn't help it and neither could Clark. He gave me a grin so deep and wide, it lit up the whole room. It was as if he was telling me, silently, _There's no stopping us now, Lois._

No, there's no stopping us, not after all we've been through and all the great and wonderful things we're going to go through together. My dad was right. Sometimes we _are_ just called to stand behind the real heroes. And that role is more than good enough for me.

* * *

**THE END! What a delightfully fun story this one was to write. It's given me a fantastic learning experience in writing in first person POV, plus the opportunity to explore one of my favorite heroines of all time. Thanks so much to everyone who's read and reviewed ****_Steel Magnolia_****!**

**This will be the end of my fanfiction writing for a while...or at least, the end of writing fanfiction on my own. I'm starting work on a new World War II novel, which I'm really excited about, and I need to give it the majority of my time and brain power. HOWEVER, I ****_am_**** co-authoring ****_Sister of Krypton _****with TehMarishal, so I'll still be in the Superman fanfiction realm! And of course I will be on top of any and all news regarding ****_Dawn of Justice _****;) **

**A special shout-out goes to ClarksGirl (for your constant encouragement and delightful PM's!), East Coast Captain (for all the fun information on Kryptonian history), and GravityHasNoLimit (for everything, basically...you are my Super-buddy forever and always). And thanks again to everyone else for the reviews; I appreciated each and every one! **


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